THE  RESURRECTION 

OF  MISS  CYNTHIA 

Of  FLORENCE- M-KINGSLEY 


THE 
MAYFAIR 


7859  MELROSE  AVENUE 
HOLLYWOOD,  CALIF. 


THE  MAYFAIR  RENTAL  LIBRARY 
BOOK  No..3.A/ 

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THE  RESURRECTION 
OF  MISS  CYNTHIA 


ATo!'  Avhispered  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  a  frightened  little 
shiver ;  'wof  w£# £  summer !' '; 


THE  RESURRECTION 
OF   MISS  CYNTHIA 


BY 
FLORENCE  MORSE  KINGSLEY 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  TRANSFIGURATION  OF  MISS  PHILURA 
THE  SINGULAR  MISS  SMITH.  ETC. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE 
BY  MARTIN  JUSTICE 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 

MOUSE  KlNGSLCY 


All  Bights  Reserved 
Published,  September,  1905 


To  My  Friend 
EDWIN  MARKHAM 

To  whose  inspirational  utterances 

Concerning  the  life  that  now  is,  the  author 

owes  certain  cJieerful  and  enlivening 

ideas  which  appear  in  humbler 

guise  in  this  book 


2225082 


Miss  CYNTHIA  DAY  had  lain  broadly  awake  on  her 
smooth,  lavender-scented  pillow  since  the  first  gray 
twilight  of  dawn,  her  thoughts  busying  themselves 
fretfully  with  the  events  of  the  previous  day. 

The  events  in  question  appeared  conspicuously  im- 
portant to  Miss  Cynthia.  For  one  thing,  she  had  vis- 
ited her  dressmaker  and  found  the  fit  and  finish  of  her 
new  silk  gown  entirely  unsatisfactory.  This  was  a 
regular  annual  occurrence,  and  therefore  quite  to  be 
expected,  but  Miss  Cynthia  had  not  found  it  the  less 
irritating  on  that  account.  She  had  entered  upon  the 
customary  discussion  of  remedial  measures  with  Mal- 
vina  Bennett  with  a  suppressed  exasperation  which 
bordered  upon  vulgar  ill  humour.  The  stupidity  and 
incompetence  of  Miss  Bennett  appeared  almost  crim- 
inal when  considered  in  conjunction  with  the  shining 
breadths  of  silk  entrusted  to  her  hands. 

"  Malvina  is  not  to  be  trusted,"  Miss  Cynthia  told 
herself,  with  a  firm  tightening  of  her  small  mouth. 

Dismissing  for  the  moment  the  professional  pecca- 


2       The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

dilloes  of  the  dressmaker,  Miss  Cynthia  entered  upon 
an  exhaustive  mental  inspection  of  her  wardrobe,  in 
the  course  of  which  she  decided  to  purchase  "  a  really 
good  tailor-made  dress  "  in  one  of  the  big  department 
stores  of  Boston.  It  was  to  be  feared  that  this  ex- 
penditure (necessitated  by  Malvina  Bennett's  inex- 
cusable carelessness)  might  carry  her  perilously  near 
the  rigid  bounds  of  her  self-imposed  allowance.  Miss 
Cynthia  knew,  of  course,  that  the  income  from  the 
accumulated  Breyfogle  and  Day  properties  was  more 
than  amply  sufficient  for  her  needs.  She  was  also 
complacently  aware  that  only  quite  common  and  vul- 
gar persons  (notably  devoid  of  ancestors)  expended 
all  they  could  conveniently  lay  hands  upon ;  conversely, 
the  less  of  an  ample  income  one  employed  the  more 
dignified  and  well-bred  the  individual. 

Such  elective  and  therefore  patrician  economies  had 
invariably  distinguished  the  members  of  the  Breyfogle 
family.  Miss  Cynthia  had  early  acquired  the  con- 
viction that  she  was  not  an  exception  to  the  rule. 
She  reflected  that  it  was  hardly  necessary  to  impress 
the  advantage  of  frugality  upon  Abby  Whiton. 
Abby  had  lived  in  the  family  as  maid  of  all  work  for 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia       3 

more  than  thirty  years  and  was  thoroughly  conver- 
sant with  the  Breyfogle  methods  of  administering  a 
kitchen.  Nevertheless,  Miss  Cynthia  decided  to  look 
a  little  more  carefully  after  the  soap  and  drippings. 
There  were  certain  other  snug  retrenchments  which 
she  contemplated  with  a  satisfaction  which  for  the 
moment  cleared  the  anxious  puckers  from  her  small, 
colourless  face. 

The  tailor-made  gown  should  of  course  be  black. 
Miss  Cynthia  had  worn  black  continuously  since  the 
days  of  her  young  girlhood,  when  the  successive 
funerals  of  a  large  and  elderly  family  connection  had 
occurred  with  monotonous  frequency.  "I  despise 
black  clothes!"  she  had  once  declared  rebelliously, 
thereby  shocking  the  surviving  elderly  relatives  into 
an  unending  series  of  dreary  homilies  which  she  had 
found  even  more  depressing  than  the  hated  black 
dresses. 

Miss  Cynthia  scarcely  ever  thought  of  her  shadowy 
young  self  nowadays ;  when  she  did  it  was  with  a  feel- 
ing of  quiet  satisfaction  in  the  changes  which  the 
passing  years  had  wrought.  The  last  funeral  had 
occurred  more  than  five  years  since ;  there  was,  there- 


&       The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

fore,  no  mortuary  reason  (as  Malvina  Bennett  had 
frequently  urged)  to  prevent  Miss  Cynthia  from 
wearing  colours.  But  she  still  chose  the  handsome 
black  gowns  which  intimated  not  too  obtrusively  her 
lone  condition  in  the  world,  wearing  them  with  a 
certain  pride  in  her  loyalty  to  the  unyielding  cus- 
toms and  opinions  of  her  dead  mother. 

Mrs.  Day  had  been  the  last  to  join  the  silent  com- 
pany in  the  family  burial-plot,  and  the  gloom  of  her 
austere,  hard-featured  personality  seemed  still  to 
linger  like  an  actual  presence  about  the  stiffly  fur- 
nished rooms  of  the  old  Breyfogle  house.  Miss 
Cynthia  was  acutely  aware  of  it,  and  she  had  con- 
tinued to  yield  to  it  an  unquestioning  obedience  down 
to  the  smallest  details  of  her  small  round  of  daily 
existence.  She  was  anxiously  careful  of  her  clothes, 
of  her  expenditures,  of  her  weak  health,  of  her  re- 
ligious beliefs,  and  she  had  become  increasingly  solic- 
itous in  her  efforts  to  preserve  the  grim,  immaculate 
order  of  furniture  and  fittings  in  which  the  late  Mrs. 
Day  had  taken  what  might  be  termed  her  one  pleas- 
ure in  life — if  words  so  warm  and  human  may  be  used 
to  describe  an  emotion  so  frozen,  so  colourless. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia       3 

The  small,  uneven  trickle  of  Miss  Cynthia's  thoughts 
mounted  at  length  to  the  level  of  the  attic,  where  at 
the  bottom  of  a  certain  hair  trunk,  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  her  Grandfather  Breyfogle,  reposed  sev- 
eral neatly  labelled  boxes  of  hereditary  dress-trim- 
mings. She  wondered  with  feverish  intensity  whether 
a  set  of  jet  medallions  (carefully  wrapped  in  tissue 
paper  and  bestowed  in  the  lower  left-hand  corner  of 
the  green  box)  would  be  too  "dressy"  a  garniture 
for  the  front  of  her  new  silk  waist.  The  jets  would 
partially  conceal,  she  reflected,  the  ravages  of  Mal- 
vina  Bennett's  unthinking  needle.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  medallions  had  once  belonged  to  her  Grand- 
mother Breyfogle;  her  mother,  she  remembered,  had 
always  considered  them  too  handsome  and  too  ex- 
pensive to  use.  Miss  Cynthia  finally  rejected  the 
idea  of  the  medallions  in  favour  of  some  well-mended 
black  lace,  at  present  doing  duty  on  a  best  dress  about 
to  be  degraded  to  second  wear. 

The  vision  of  the  hair  trunk  had  subtly  suggested 
the  annual  spring  house-cleaning.  It  was  already 
April,  and  Miss  Cynthia  had  not  cleaned  house.  She 
fidgeted  uneasily  upon  her  pillow  as  she  called  to 


6       The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

mind  her  mother's  spare,  active  figure  in  grim  pur- 
suit of  imaginary  dust  and  cobwebs  amid  the  rigours 
of  March  weather.  To  clean  house  at  a  season  of  the 
year  involving  positive  personal  suffering  had  ap- 
pealed to  the  martyr  spirit  which  dominated  Mrs. 
Day's  New  England  conscience.  In  view  of  the 
strenuous  past  Miss  Cynthia  experienced  a  real  and 
poignant  remorse  at  the  thought  of  her  own  sinful 
laxness. 

A  certain  dull,  teasing,  persistent  little  pain  which 
had  haunted  her  of  late  made  itself  felt  more  sharply 
than  usual,  as  if  offering  itself  in  guise  of  a  more  or 
less  valid  excuse.  Miss  Cynthia  turned  on  her  pil- 
low with  a  sigh,  and  the  movement  brought  into  the 
range  of  her  short-sighted  blue  eyes  a  flat,  thin  book 
with  marbled  board  covers  which  lay  upon  the  table 
in  close  proximity  to  her  Bible.  It  was,  in  fact,  the 
official  record  of  minutes  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and 
Missionary  Society  of  the  Innisfield  Presbyterian 
church,  of  which  Miss  Cynthia  was  a  member  in  good 
and  regular  standing. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  society  held  the  previous  after- 
noon Miss  Day  had  been  unanimously  elected  secre- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia       7 

tary,  in  place  of  Mrs.  John  Puffer,  resigned.  The 
newly-elected  officer  had  become  almost  instantly 
aware  that  Mrs.  Puffer's  book  of  records  was  in  a 
disgracefully  untidy  condition.  It  was  indeed  act- 
ually moist  and  sticky.  Miss  Cynthia  had  grave 
reason  to  suspect  that  the  Puffer  twins  had  recently 
consumed  bread  and  jam  in  its  immediate  proximity. 
To  be  sure,  the  biennial  new  baby  had  but  lately 
arrived  in  the  Puffer  household,  a  fact  which  had 
been  duly  advanced  by  a  sympathetic  matron  to 
account  for  the  resignation  before  noted,  and  other 
phenomena,  including  bread  and  jam  in  unlooked- 
for  localities. 

Miss  Cynthia's  maiden  imagination  hovered  in 
wordless  indignation  about  the  Puffer  menage  for  a 
brief  space,  then  reverted  to  her  own  more  engrossing 
affairs.  She  consulted  her  Grandmother  Brey- 
fogle's  watch  which  ticked  feebly  in  its  thin,  pale 
case  beneath  her  pillow.  "I  think,"  she  said  aloud, 
"that  I  shall  go  to  town  to-day." 

She  continued  to  plan  the  details  of  a  somewhat 
tedious  shopping  expedition  as  she  completed  her 
toilet,  selecting  each  garment  with  careful  reference 


8       The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

to  the  capricious  April  morning  which  gloomed  and 
sparkled  outside  the  closed  sash  of  her  window.  A 
robin  in  full  tide  of  jubilant  mating  song  swung  in 
the  budding  branches  of  the  old  apple-tree  in  the 
garden  below.  Violets  were  unfolding  their  young 
leaves  from  the  cold,  wet  earth.  An  adventurous 
daffodil  flaunted  its  yellow  skirts  in  the  brisk  wind. 
Miss  Cynthia's  faded  blue  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
open  page  of  her  Bible.  "A  broadcloth  is  far 
handsomer  than  a  serge,"  she  was  thinking ;  "  but  it 
doesn't  wear  nearly  as  well." 

"Let  everything  that  hath  breath  praise  the 
Lord!"  she  read,  and  wondered  if  fringes  were  still 
worn,  and  if  they  were  less  expensive  than  applique. 
She  sank  to  her  knees  and  repeated  certain  familiar 
prayers  in  a  busy  whisper.  When  she  arose  she  had 
decided  to  purchase  a  serge  with  stitched  taffeta 
trimmings. 

This  and  other  matters  were  presently  noted  in  due 
order  upon  a  neat  tablet  of  memoranda.  As  Miss 
Cynthia's  pencil  primly  dotted  the  last  period  the 
teasing,  familiar  pain  again  clamoured  sharply  for 
recognition  beneath  the  stiff  trimmings  of  her  rigid 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia       9 

little  bodice.  She  hesitated  for  a  fraction  of  a  min- 
ute then  added  a  line  to  her  list.  "  If  in  neighbour- 
hood of  Plymouth  Street,  consult  the  doctor." 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  a  foolish  waste  of  money," 
she  thought,  as  she  stepped  noiselessly  down  the 
thickly-carpeted  stair.  This  prudent  reflection  con- 
cerned itself  directly  with  the  projected  call  at  the 
doctor's  office.  Miss  Cynthia  was  thoroughly  ac- 
customed to  slight,  dull  pains  in  various  parts  of  her 
body,  and  these  with  the  sense  of  lassitude  which 
frequently  overtook  her  of  late  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  referring  to  the  "  delicate  health  "  which  all  lady- 
like persons,  particularly  of  the  Breyfogle  con- 
nection, cherished  as  an  integral  element  of  their 
genteel  breeding.  Miss  Cynthia  had  already  experi- 
enced a  large  number  of  interesting  maladies,  and 
these,  with  the  differing  complaints  of  various  friends 
and  relatives,  had  furnished  her  with  much  food  for 
thought,  as  well  as  for  conversation  of  a  gentle  and 
desultory  character. 

Miss  Cynthia  invariably  referred  to  the  "Brey- 
fogle constitution"  with  a  sort  of  reverence,  as  to 
something  rare  and  precious  which  had  been  be- 


10     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

queathed  to  her  by  a  singularly  fortunate  and  dis- 
tinguished ancestry.  There  was  also  the  intricate 
"  Day  constitution "  to  be  taken  into  account. 
Miss  Cynthia  vaguely  recollected  that  her  great- 
aunt  Serena  Day  had  frequently  complained  of  a 
sensation  similar  to  the  one  with  which  she  herself 
was  growing  unhappily  familiar.  Involuntarily  her 
fragile  little  hand  sought  the  unyielding  perpen- 
dicular of  her  corset-steel  with  the  gesture  of  the 
long-departed  Aunt  Serena.  "  It  is  just  here," 
whispered  Miss  Cynthia  to  herself;  "and  it  goes 
through  me  like  a  red-hot  knitting  needle."  This  had 
been  Aunt  Serena  Day's  picturesquely  dreadful  de- 
scriptive phrase.  Miss  Cynthia  adopted  it  with  pecu- 
liar satisfaction.  "  Just  like  a  red-hot  knitting 
needle ! "  she  repeated,  as  she  stepped  from  the  last 
stair. 

There  was  a  lonesome,  penetrating  smell  of  well- 
rubbed,  heavily-upholstered  old  furniture  and  car- 
pets, religiously  preserved  from  the  direct  rays  of 
the  sun,  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house,  which  might 
have  suggested  hastily  opened  doors  and  windows  to 
a  less  conservative  person.  Miss  Cynthia  was  hardly 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     11 

aware  of  it;  her  delicate  little  pointed  nose  (the 
Breyfogle  nose)  recognised  merely  the  familiar 
hereditary  atmosphere,  as  thoroughly  characteristic, 
and  quite  as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  the  orthodox 
family  opinions  on  everlasting  punishment  and  the 
state  of  the  saved  after  death. 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  parlour,  wonder- 
ing weakly  whether  it  would  do  to  leave  the  carpets 
down  for  another  season.  "No  one  ever  comes  in 
here  to  sit  down,  except  when  the  minister  calls,"  she 
told  herself.  The  stern,  wooden  countenance  of 
Grandfather  Breyfogle,  in  gown  and  bands,  and  the 
prim,  simpering  glance  of  Grandmother  Breyfogle 
(wearing  the  jet  medallions)  seemed  to  focus  a 
strong  family  disapproval  upon  her  shrinking  little 
figure,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  their  tar- 
nished gilt  frames,  swathed  funereally  in  yellowing 
tarlatan. 

"Of  course,"  she  murmured  apologetically,  "I 
shall  try  to  do  my  duty." 

This  stern,  but  depressing,  resolution  remained  with 
Miss  Cynthia  during  the  entire  day.  One's  duty,  as 
she  conceived  it,  being  invariably  at  odds  with  one's 


12      The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

inclination,  she  purchased  a  frankly  ugly  gown  and 
an  unfashionable  hat,  lunched  dyspeptically  on 
lemon  pie  and  weak  tea,  and  finally  found  herself 
waiting  her  turn  for  an  interview  with  the  silent, 
melancholy  assemblage  of  persons  usually  to  be 
found  in  a  doctor's  reception  room. 

The  doctor  was  a  big,  bluff,  red-faced  man,  with  a 
certain  defiant  cheerfulness  of  manner.  He  prided 
himself  on  the  fact  that  he  never  prevaricated  facts 
pertaining  to  life  and  death  for  the  benefit  of  his 
patients'  supposed  sensibilities.  He  regarded  the 
human  body  as  a  vastly  complicated  and  interesting 
machine,  meriting,  but  seldom  receiving,  the  most 
careful  and  systematic  attention  of  its  owner.  He 
was  frequently  incensed  with  the  silly  women  who 
came  to  him  to  be  rid  of  their  self-induced  com- 
plaints, and  he  made  little  effort  to  conceal  his 
feelings. 

He  stared  keenly  at  Miss  Cynthia  when  she  had 
seated  herself  in  his  presence  with  a  timidly  ingra- 
tiating air.  "Yes,"  he  said  shortly — after  she  had 
spoken  with  becoming  dignity  of  the  exceeding  deli- 
cacy of  the  Breyfogle  constitution  and  of  the  intri- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     13 

cate  and  uncommon  maladies  incident  to  the  Day 
constitution.  "  I  remember  both  you  and  your 
folks  very  well  indeed.  Heard  your  Grandfather 
Breyfogle  preach  on  hell  when  I  was  a  boy."  He 
made  a  wry  face  at  this,  as  if  unexpectedly  com- 
pelled to  swallow  a  dose  of  his  own  medicine. 
"  Haven't  been  to  church  since."  After  a  thoughtful 
pause  he  added  abruptly,  "  Hope  you  haven't  in- 
herited his  insides,  madame." 

Miss  Cynthia  compressed  her  small  mouth.  "  I  am 
said  to  be  very  like  my  Grandfather  Breyfogle,"  she 
said  primly. 

The  doctor  busied  himself  with  listening  intently  at 
the  back  and  front  of  Miss  Day's  attenuated  little 
figure.  "Humph!"  he  ejaculated.  "How  old  are 
you?" 

Miss  Cynthia  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond. "  I  am  thirty-three,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  should  have  said  ten  years  older,"  commented 
the  doctor,  with  professional  rudeness.  "Well,  it 
doesn't  matter." 

Miss  Cynthia  stared  at  him  with  vague  dismay. 
"I  thought  perhaps  I  needed  a — a  tonic,"  she  said 


14     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

at  last.  "  Something  bitter,  or — I  have  taken  six 
bottles  of  Scoop's  Vegetable  Herb  Compound  since 
last  fall,"  she  concluded  somewhat  proudly.  "  It  was 
recommended  to  me." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  compassionately. 

"  You  should  have  attended  to  this  before,"  he  said 
slowly.  He  squared  his  broad  shoulders ;  then  broke 
into  a  short,  impatient  laugh.  "  About  a  hundred 
years  before,"  he  added,  under  his  breath. 

"  What — what  do  you  call  my  complaint  ?  "  in- 
quired Miss  Cynthia.  "Do  you — consider — it 
serious?" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth?  " 

"  That  is  why  I  came  to  you,"  she  said.  She  sat 
quite  erect  in  the  straight-backed  chair,  her  little 
feet  scarce  touching  the  floor,  her  short-sighted  blue 
eyes  fixed  on  the  doctor's  face.  "  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  you,"  she  added  with  careful  dignity,  "if  you 
will  acquaint  me  with  my  exact  condition.  It  is,  I 
think,  more  important  to  me  than  to — anyone. 
There  is — no  one  else — to  whom  it  matters." 

Miss  Cynthia's  erect  little  figure  did  not  waver  dur- 
ing the  somewhat  halting  explanation  which  made  her 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     15 

grim  future  clear  to  her.  Her  hands,  folded  primly 
in  her  lap,  did  not  tremble.  "I  shall  live — only 
one  year,"  she  said  slowly.  "  That  is  what  I  un- 
derstand— one  year.  Am  I  right?" 

The  doctor's  big  face  had  grown  pale,  almost 
ashamed.  "I — I  am  sorry,"  he  stammered,  with 
a  curious  embarrassment.  "Perhaps  I  should  not 
have  told  you  so — er — plainly.  But — 

Miss  Cynthia  arose  with  a  certain  definiteness  of 
manner.  "  I  am  glad  I  know,"  she  said  simply.  "  I 
— thank  you  for  telling  me.  It  was  right  that  I 
should  know." 


XI 

THE  late  afternoon  sunshine  flickered  coldly  across 
the  grim  headstones  which  marked  the  last  resting 
place  of  Samuel  Hastings  Day  and  Susan  Maria 
Breyfogle,  his  wife.  To  Miss  Cynthia,  stumbling 
weakly  through  the  sodden  grass,  they  appeared  in 
stony  guise  of  her  parents,  waiting  stiffly  and  with 
inexorable  patience  for  her  to  join  them. 

She  remembered  dully  that  they  had  always  waited 
for  her  thus.  After  church  of  a  summer's  evening 
when  other  girls  were  loitering  happily  homeward, 
arm  in  arm  with  the  red-cheeked  village  beaux,  she 
had  walked  primly  between  her  father  and  mother, 
listening  to  the  endless  antiphonal  discourses  with 
which  they  strove  to  seal  her  young  ears  against 
the  allurements  of  the  world.  Thus  early  had  she 
been  led  to  differentiate  between  the  inordinate  de- 
sires of  the  carnal  or  fleshly  nature  and  the  unyield- 
ing demands  of  Deity,  which  might  readily  be  recog- 
nised in  that  they  were  invariably  distasteful. 

The  conscientious  Mrs.  Day  had  earnestly  striven 

16 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     17! 

to  bring  up  her  one  child  in  what  she  was  pleased  to 
term  "  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord," 
the  worthy  woman's  interpretation  of  this  Script- 
ural phrase  being  at  once  simple  and  ingenuous. 
The  resulting  discipline  consisted  mainly  in  ascer- 
taining the  natural  desires  of  the  girl's  heart  for 
the  purpose  of  thwarting  them. 

Once  a  courageous  youth  had  ventured  to  walk 
home  with  Cynthia  Day  from  school,  leaving  her 
at  the  gate  with  a  lingering  hand-clasp,  which  Mrs. 
Day  at  the  window  above  witnessed  with  tightened 
lips.  The  girl  had  gone  into  the  house,  her  face 
bright  with  youthful  blushes,  to  endure  the  cold  dis- 
pleasure of  her  mother's  eyes.  "  I  do  not  approve 
of  boys,"  Mrs.  Day  had  announced,  with  a  wither- 
ing accent  of  finality.  "I  cannot  allow  you  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  boys" 

But  the  boy  had  continued  to  defy  the  disapproval 
of  the  matron.  Miss  Cynthia  drew  her  breath 
sharply  as  she  thought  of  him  now.  It  was  in  such 
young  April  weather  as  this  that  she  had  said  good- 
bye to  him  for  the  last  time.  Perhaps  he  had  not 
really  cared.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten.  She  had 


18     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

never  known.  It  was,  after  all,  only  the  pale 
shadow  of  a  love  affair;  but  she  remembered  it  with 
singular  vividness  as  she  stood  looking  down  at 
the  narrow,  sunken  space  between  the  graves.  This 
was  her  place,  reserved  for  her.  And  she  was  com- 
ing to  it — soon. 

She  sank  weakly  down  on  the  iron  bench,  set  for 
the  cold  comfort  of  mourners,  mechanically  lifting 
her  black  skirt  from  contact  with  the  ground. 
"My  stone  will  stand  just  there,"  she  said  aloud, 
pointing  with  her  tremulous  little  finger.  "It  will 
be  white  and  new.  It  will  say,  '  Cynthia  Breyf ogle 
Day,  aged  thirty-four.  Only  daughter  of  Samuel 
Hastings  Day  and  Susan  Maria  Breyf  ogle,  his  wife. 
Died  April '" 

She  broke  off  with  a  short,  sharp  cry  of  utter  re- 
bellion. "I  can't  die!  Oh,  God!  I  ccm't  die!" 

A  bluebird  perched  on  the  fence  near  by  burst  into 
a  low  gurgle  of  happiness,  the  blossoming  maples 
tossed  their  scarlet  fringes  against  the  darkening 
sky.  Miss  Cynthia  had  slipped  from  the  iron  bench 
and  lay  in  a  huddled  heap  upon  the  wet  earth,  where 
the  new  grass  was  pricking  greenly  through  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     19 

year's  dead  growth.  She  was  sobbing  wildly,  like  a 
hurt  child.  "  I've  always  tried  to  do  just  what  you 
wanted  me  to,"  she  whispered,  "  and  now — and  now 
it's  almost  over !  " 

She  realised — as  she  lay  there  prone  against  the 
unanswering  stone — something  of  the  pitiful  futili- 
ity  of  her  life,  something  of  its  starved  littleness. 
She  wondered  dully  why  she  had  lived  at  all.  Why, 
• — having  lived  uselessly — she  must  die — unsatisfied. 
Her  broken  thoughts  struggled  weakly  to  rise  to 
the  barren  heaven  of  the  apocalyptic  vision,  inhab- 
ited largely  (she  supposed)  by  the  blameless  Brey- 
fogle  and  Day  family  connection.  She  strove  to 
picture  herself  robed  in  white  and  wearing  large,  in- 
convenient wings,  eternally  occupied  in  playing  a 
small,  shining  harp. 

"  I  don't  want  to  die ! "  she  whimpered  childishly. 
"  I  don't  want  to  die ! " 

She  decided  at  length  that  the  inscription  on  the 
tombstone  should  read,  "  Cynthia  Breyfogle  Day, 
beloved  daughter  of  Samuel  Hastings  Day  and 
Susan  Maria  Breyfogle,  his  wife." 

"  I  should  like,"  she  murmured,  "  to  have  people 


20     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

think  that  somebody  loved  me,  once."  She  lay 
quite  still  after  this,  wrapped  in  a  dim  dream  of  the 
long,  peaceful  days  when  the  stone  would  be  telling 
its  brief  story,  and  she — would  be  sleeping  be- 
neath it. 

A  drop  of  warm  rain,  shed  like  a  tear  from  a  great 
gray  hurrying  cloud,  fell  gently  against  her  wan 
cheek.  "  The  beloved  daughter,"  whispered  Miss 
Cynthia,  smiling  piteously  to  herself.  "  They  will 
think,  perhaps,  that  I  loved  somebody — once." 

The  prattle  of  shrill,  childish  voices  close  at  hand 
mingled  confusedly  with  her  dream.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  once  more  a  child,  hungrily  watch- 
ing other  children  at  play  across  the  hedge.  Her 
mother's  voice  was  calling  insistently,  "  Come, 
daughter!  You  must  come  in  now;  it  is  time  to  go 
to  bed." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  she  answered  drowsily,  "  I'm 
coming ! " 

She  rose  stiffly  to  her  feet,  dimly  conscious  that 
the  rain  was  falling  steadily  with  a  soft  patter  on 
the  gaunt  stones  and  leafless  shrubbery.  A  pink 
and  yellow  sunset  shot  long,  dazzling  beams 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     21 

through  the  warm  mist.  The  friendly  bluebird, 
perched  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  tall  evergreen,  re- 
peated his  rapturous  exclamation  again  and  again. 
A  redbreasted  robin  darted  through  the  chill,  wet 
air  with  loud,  cheerful  calls  to  his  flying  mate. 
Miss  Cynthia  felt  strangely  young  and  light  of 
heart  as  she  walked  slowly  among  the  graves. 
"Why,  it — it's — beautiful!"  she  said  in  a  sur- 
prised little  voice. 

She  almost  stumbled  over  two  small  figures  cuddled 
snugly  under  the  shelter  of  an  overhanging  bush.  She 
stopped  and  regarded  them  attentively.  They  stared 
back  at  her  from  innocent,  wide  eyes.  "  It's  raining," 
said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  vague  smile.  "  You  will  be 
quite  wet  if  you  stop  here." 

"  We  don't  care,"  piped  a  little  voice,  "  we  like  to  be 
out  in  the  rain.  'Sides,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  rainbow. 
We  like  rainbows." 

"  But  why  did  you  come  here?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia, 
slowly  recognising  the  Puffer  twins.  They  wore  no 
hats,  and  their  red  hair  stood  out  in  a  sort  of  aureole 
about  their  round,  freckled  faces. 

"  Because  it's  a  hill,"  answered  the  child  proirptly. 


22     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  We  always  come  up  here  to  see  rainbows.  What  did 
you  come  for?" 

Miss  Cynthia  lifted  her  wan  face  to  the  shining  sky. 

"I  came  to  see  a  rainbow,"  she  answered.  "Yes, 
that  is  why  I  came — to  see  a  rainbow." 

"You're  getting  pretty  wet,"  observed  one  of  the 
little  girls,  after  a  wondering  silence.  "Why  do 
you  stay  here  and  get  wet?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  laughed  weakly.  "I  never  got  wet 
before  in  my  life,"  she  said.  "  I  think — I  like  it." 

The  child  stared  hard  at  the  little  draggled  figure. 
"I  guess  we'll  go  now,"  she  said  at  last.  "P'raps 
you'd  better  come  too.  Do  you  want  to  take  hold 
of  han's?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  eagerly,  "  I'd  like  to  take 
hold  of  hands." 

"  We  most  always  run  when  we  take  hold  of  han's," 
piped  up  the  other  child,  with  a  twittering  laugh. 
"  It's  lots  of  fun  if  you  don't  fall  down  an'  skin  your 
knee.  I  guess  you  can't  run  very  fast,  though." 

The  soft,  warm  hands  of  the  two  children  seemed  to 
send  thrills  of  a  strange,  new  life  into  Miss  Cynthia's 
chilled  body.  She  found  herself  presently  at  the  foot 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     23 

of  the  little  slope,  panting  and  breathless.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  she  had  just  passed  through  the  most  ex- 
citing experience  of  her  life.  "  I  never  ran  down  hill 
before,"  she  gasped. 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"  Because  my  mother  was  afraid  I'd  tear  my  dress," 
replied  Miss  Cynthia,  promptly  and  truthfully. 

"  I  guess  you  did  tear  it,"  said  the  child  doubtfully. 
"  I  heard  something  rip  behind.  Will  anybody  scold 
you?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  firmly.  "  I  shan't  even 
scold  myself.  It  won't  make  any  difference,"  she 
added  in  a  low  voice.  "  I'm  glad  I  tore  it." 

She  was,  in  fact,  aware  of  a  keen  and  peculiar  satis- 
faction which  held  her  warmly  fast  like  the  hands  of 
the  Puffer  twins.  She  yielded  to  it  without  question. 
"  It  is  only  for  a  year,"  she  told  herself.  She  looked 
down  into  the  upturned  faces  of  the  twins  with  a  faint 
smile.  "It's  nice  out  of  doors  to-day,  isn't  it?" 

"  It's  always  nice  outdoors,"  said  one  of  the  children 
seriously;  "but  it's  nicer  when  it's  pleasant.  We're 
going  after  wild  flowers  to-morrow." 

"  I   wish "    began    Miss    Cynthia.     Then    she 


24     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

stopped  short;  she  remembered  the  belated  house 
cleaning. 

"  We're  goin'  to  bring  apples  an'  bread  an'  butter, 
an'  eat  'em  in  the  woods,"  continued  the  little  girl, 
sucking  in  her  moist,  red  lips  with  anticipatory  relish. 
"  It's  lots  of  fun  to  have  picnics.  We  have  'em  'most 
every  day  in  summer.  Do  you  like  picnics  ?  " 

"  I  never  went  to  a  picnic  but  once,"  said  Miss  Cyn- 
thia soberly,  "  and  that  was  a  long  time  ago."  She 
hesitated,  while  a  faint  flush  tinged  her  pale  cheeks. 
"  I — I've  got  some  big,  red  apples  at  my  house,"  she 
said  slowly,  "  and — and  some  red-raspberry  jam." 

The  children  stared  at  her  in  wondering  silence. 
"We  like  jam,"  sighed  one.  "'N  every  bit  of 
mother's  jam  is  et  up." 

"If  I  could  go  after  wild  flowers  with  you,  and — 

and Would  you  let  me  go  with  you?  "  Miss 

Cynthia's  voice  trembled  with  eagerness. 

"Would  you  bring  lots  of  jam  on  bread  an'  two 
red  apples  apiece  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  would." 

"An'  a  basket  to  dig  roots?  We're  makin*  a  gar- 
den. Have  you  got  a  garden  ?  " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     25 

"  I've  got  some  rosebushes  and  peonies  in  my  yard," 
said  Miss  Cynthia  doubtfully,  "  and  I  guess  some 
daffodils." 

The  twins  giggled  and  shot  guilty  glances  at  one 
another.  "We  didn't  know  you  liked  little  girls," 
said  one  presently.  "  Our  mother  said  you  didn't ; 
she  said  we  mustn't  go  in  your  yard.  But  we  did. 
We  picked  two  daffodils  'ithout  askin'.  Our  mother 
said  you  wouldn't  give  a  single  one  of  your  flowers 
away." 

Miss  Cynthia's  lips  trembled.  "  I  do  like  little  girls," 
she  said,  in  a  small,  weak  voice.  "  I  never  knew  very 
many.  I  always  had  to  stay  in  my  own  yard. 

But "  Her  head  was  lifted  with  a  resolute 

air — "  I'm  not  going  to  stay  there  any  more." 

The  children  looked  interested.  "  Why  not?"  they 
demanded. 

"  Because  I'm  tired  of  it,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  defin- 
itely. "  You  can  have  all  my  daffodils,  if  you  want 
them." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Puffer  twins,  with  cheerful 
unanimity.  "  We'll  come  an'  dig  'em  up  to-mor- 
row." 


26     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  have  a  picnic  ?  " 

"  We  are." 

"When?" 

"In  the  mornin',  maybe.     Are  you  comin'?" 

"If  you'll  let  me,"  Miss  Cynthia  said  joyfully. 
She  suddenly  decided  that  she  would  not  clean  house 
any  more.  "I  don't  want  to  clean  house,"  she  said 
aloud. 

"We  think  it's  fun,"  observed  the  twin  who  spoke 
oftenest. 

"Fun?"  echoed  Miss  Cynthia  weakly.  "Fun — to 
clean  house?" 

"  Uh-huh,  heaps  of  fun !  We  like  to  rummage  in  old 
trunks  an'  boxes,  an'  pull  things  about." 

Miss  Cynthia  remembered  the  plethoric  boxes  in  her 
attic.  "  I've  got  a  good  many  things,"  she  said  so- 
berly. "  But  I  never  thought  it  was  fun  to  pull  them 
about.  I — I  never  pulled  them  about." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  doubtfully. 
"  Perhaps  I  was  afraid  to." 

"  We  aren't  afraid,"  said  the  talkative  twin  calmly. 
"We've  got  to  go  in  now.  I  guess  supper's  ready, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     27 

an'  we're  hungry.  We'll  come  to  your  house  to-mor* 
row  an'  dig  those  daffodils." 

"  Don't  forget,"  said  Miss  Cynthia. 

She  felt  suddenly  old  and  very,  very  tired  when  the 
children  had  dropped  her  hands  and  dashed  with  a 
cheerful  whoop  into  the  rather  untidy  Puffer  door- 
yard. 

Her  wet  skirts  dragged  heavily  about  her  tired 
ankles  and  her  head  ached.  "  I  suppose,"  she 
thought  drearily,  "  that  I  have  taken  cold.  But — 
it  won't  make  any  difference." 

There  was  real  comfort  in  the  idea.  She  walked 
more  briskly  as  she  approached  her  own  gate.  "I 
don't  care  if  I  am  wet,"  she  told  herself.  "  I  shall 
get  wet  whenever  I  choose.  I  might  as  well." 

The  stooped  figure  of  a  woman  clad  in  rusty  black 
and  bearing  a  large  flat  parcel  was  fumbling  with 
the  latch.  She  looked  up  with  a  little  apprehensive 
cough  at  Miss  Cynthia's  approach.  "I'm  reel  glad 
you're  home,"  she  said  eagerly.  "I  jest  brought 
your  dress  over  to  try  on." 

"How  do  you  do,  Malvina?"  said  Miss  Cynthia, 
opening  the  gate.  "  Come  in,  won't  you?  " 


28     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I've  tried  reel  hard  to  fix  that  dress  waist  jest  as 
you  wanted  it,"  quavered  Miss  Bennett,  with  an  anx- 
ious smile.  "  An'  I'm  most  sure  the  skirt  '11  hang  reel 
pretty  now  'at  the  gethers  is  changed.  I  hope  it  will, 
anyhow.  My !  I  ain't  hardly  slep'  nights,  I've  been 
so  worried  'bout  it." 

Miss  Cynthia  regarded  her  strangely.  "It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  about  the  dress,"  she  said  slowly. 
She  was  thinking  confusedly  that  Malvina  Bennett 
looked  old  and  worn.  She  was  painfully  thin,  too, 
and  her  breath  came  in  little  gasps.  "  Have  you  had 
supper?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  Why,  no,  I  ain't — not  yet,"  Miss  Bennett  told  her, 
with  a  startled  look.  "  As  I  says  to  mother,  I  want 
to  fin'  out  if  the  waist  is  a  good  snug  fit  before  I 
stitch  up  them  under-arm  seams  agin — I'm  bound  I'll 
git  that  wrinkle  out  ef  it  kills  me!  You  know  you 
said  you'd  got  to  have  the  dress  before  Sunday. 
An'  I  thought  mebbe  ef  I  set  up  kind  of  late,  I 
c'd " 

"  Come  in,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  urgently. 

A  feeble  light  burned  in  the  chill  darkness  of  the 
front  hall.  Miss  Cynthia  shivered  as  she  glanced 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     29 

about  her.  "  Come  into  the  sitting  room,"  she  said 
quickly.  "We'll — we'll  have  a  fire  and  some  hot 
supper." 

"My  land!"  ejaculated  the  astonished  seamstress 
under  her  breath. 

"  Abby ! "  called  Miss  Cynthia. 

The  door  of  the  kitchen  flew  open,  and  a  tall,  spare- 
skirted  figure  appeared  outlined  against  the  gloom 
beyond,  "Yer  supper's  ready,"  said  the  woman, 
recognising  her  mistress  with  a  deliberate  sniff  like 
that  of  a  sagacious  dog.  "You  c'n  set  right  down 
an'  eat  's  soon  's  ye'r  min'  to." 

Miss  Cynthia  hesitated,  then  she  straightened  her 
little  figure  determinedly.  "  Malvina  Bennett  is  going 
to  have  supper  with  me,"  she  said.  "  Make  some  hot 
toast,  Abby,  plenty  of  it,  and  open  a  jar  of  pre- 
serves. And  yes,  we'll  have  the  cold  beef,  too.  I'm 
going  to  change  my  dress  before  tea,  Abby,  and  I 
wish  you  would  light  the  fire  in  the  sitting  room  and 
bring  another  lamp.  I  want  it  to  be  warm — and — 
and  light." 

"  I  do  hope  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  no  extry  trouble  fen 
me,"  piped  Miss  Bennett  timidly.  "-  I'd  reely  no  idee 


30     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

of  stayin'  to  sapper;  all  I  wanted  was  to  git  that  dress 
waist " 

Miss  Cynthia  smiled  in  a  preoccupied  sort  of  way. 
"  Sit  down,"  she  said  gently.  "  There  isn't  so  very 
much  time,  you  know,  and  I've  always  wanted  to  have 
it  warm,  and — and  light.  It  isn't  pleasant  like  this, 
is  it?" 

The  woman  in  the  kitchen  door  turned  a  stupefied 
stare  upon  her  mistress.  "  Toast!  "  she  repeated, 
"  an*  another  lamp — an' — an'  a  fire!  You  ain't  cal- 
c'latin'  to  burn  them  nice,  round  logs  your  ma  kep'  f  er 
looks,  be  you?  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  burn  'em  now?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  obstinate  tight- 
ening of  her  little  mouth.  "  I'm  going  to  burn  them 
now — to-night." 

When  she  came  downstairs,  trailing  her  best  silk 
gown  behind  her,  she  found  Malvina  Bennett  hover- 
ing over  the  timid  flame  which  seemed  to  hesitate 
about  attacking  the  well-preserved  logs.  "The 
chimbley  don't  seem  to  draw  reel  good,"  ventured  the 
dressmaker,  casting  sidelong  glances  of  uneasy  inter- 
est at  her  hostess.  "  These  'ere  cert'nly  do  look  to 
be  awful  nice,  even  sticks  to  burn." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     31 

"Well,  I  sh'd  think  es  much !  "  chimed  in  Abby 
Whiton,  setting  down  the  tongs  with  a  disapproving 
thump.  "An5  I  guess  you  disremembered  that  the 
meat  man  don't  call  agin  tell  Sat'day.  We'll  hev  to 
save  the  cold  beef  fer  to-morrow's  dinner." 

"We  can  have  chicken  to-morrow,"  Miss  Cynth'r 
said  recklessly.  "  Anyway,  I  want  the  beef  for  sup- 
per. Bring  some  kindling,  Abby ;  I  want  this  fire  to 
burn  bright.  I  want  a  big,  warm  fire." 

The  old  chimney  yielded  its  accumulated  damps  with 
difficulty ;  but  at  last  the  flames  roared  cheerfully  up 
its  wide  throat.  Miss  Cynthia  sat  before  the  purring 
logs  with  a  satisfied  little  smile  on  her  lips ;  her  blue 
eyes  beamed  with  childish  delight.  "It  looks,"  she 
said  softly,  "just  as  I  always  thought  it  would. 
After  this — I  mean  to  have  a  fire  whenever  it  is  cold. 
Isn't  it  pleasant,  Malvina?" 

Malvina Bennett  had  enjoyed  her  supper  thoroughly. 
She  had  been  hungry  and  tired,  and  the  hot  tea  and 
toast  and  the  generous  slices  of  cold  meat  had  warmed 
her  into  a  semblance  of  cheerfulness.  "  I  don't  know 
as  I  ever  see  anythin'  nicer,"  she  sighed  happily. 
"  My !  I  never  sh'd  ha'  thought  o'  sech  a  thing  as 


32     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

stayin'  here  to  supper ! "  She  might  have  added  that 
no  one  else  in  the  village  of  Innisfield  would  have 
thought  of  it,  either.  The  old  Breyfogle  family  had 
never  been  famed  for  its  hospitality. 

"  I  like  company,"  observed  Miss  Cynthia,  after  a 
little  silence.  "  I  always  wanted  to  have  company." 

"Did  you?"  murmured  Miss  Bennett  wonderingly. 
"Mebbe  you  won't  like  the  way  I  fixed  them  pleats 
behind,"  she  went  on,  with  an  uneasy  glance  at  the 
flat  paper  parcel  which  lay  unopened  on  a  chair.  "  I 
guess  I'd  ought  to  git  right  to  work,  if  I'm  goin'  to 
finish  it  by  Sat'day  night.  The's  an  awful  lot  o' 
fussy  work  on  them  bias  folds,  to  git  'em  to  lay  reel 
nice  an'  even." 

"  I  don't  want  the  dress  Saturday,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia  dreamily.  "  I  sha'n't  need  any  more 
dresses." 

Miss  Bennett's  worn  lips  quivered.  "I  wish  you'd 
jest  take  a  look  at  it,"  she  faltered  wistfully.  "  I've 
took  an  awful  sight  o'  pains  with  the  waist.  I  s'pose 
you've  gone  an'  bought  a  ready-made  dress  in  Boston, 
an'  don't  care  no  more  fer  my  sewin'.  I've  always 
been  'fraid  you  would." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     33 

Miss  Cynthia  bit  her  lip.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  Mal- 
vina,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "I  only  meant  that 
you  needn't  hurry.  You — you  look  tired.  I — I'm 
sorry  I  found  so  much  fault  with  the  dress — was  it 
yesterday?  It  seems  like  a  long  time  ago — a  long 
time  ago.  I'll  look  at  the  dress,  of  course.  Yes, 
that's  beautiful.  It's  just  as  I  wanted  it.  Sew  it 
up  as  it  is.  And — and  I'll  pay  you  for  it  to- 
night." 

Miss  Cynthia  sat  by  her  fire  for  a  full  hour  after 
her  guest  had  left  her.  She  wondered  vaguely  what 
she  could  have  done  or  said  to  make  Malvina  Bennett 
so  strangely  happy  and  excited.  Why,  she  had  act- 
ually cried  when  she  said  good-night.  "  I  feel's  if 
I'd  never  reely  knowed  you  all  these  years,"  she  had 
said.  "  I'm  s'  thankful  I  come  over.  I  was  s'  awful 
upset  an*  worried  'bout  the  dress  I  couldn't  sca'cely 
eat  my  victuals.  'N'  now,  seems  's  'o  everythin'  was 
changed." 

The  last  words  echoed  in  Miss  Cynthia's  ears. 
"Why  not?"  she  thought  aloud.  "My  life  has  all 
been  of  a  piece,  so  far,  and  now — there's  only — one—- 
year— left." 


34     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

She  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  that  she  was  a  little, 
red-cheeked  girl,  wearing  a  pink  dress  with  ruffles 
which  flew  wide  in  the  warm  wind  as  she  ran  down  a 
long,  green  hill,  taking  hold  of  hands  with  the  Puffer 
twins. 


THE  cold,  dun  clouds,  which  had  seemed  to  waver  and 
lift  a  little  the  night  before,  had  settled  heavily  upon 
Miss  Cynthia  with  the  morning  light.  She  was 
thinking  drearily  of  shrouds  and  coffins  and  funeral 
hymns,  as  she  sipped  her  weak  coffee  from  the  cracked 
cup  which  Abby  Whiton  had  carefully  washed  by 
itself  for  twenty  years.  The  fire  on  the  hearth  had 
burned  out,  and  the  gray  ashes  stirred  uneasily  as  the 
spring  wind  whined  in  the  chimney. 

"Well,  of  all  the  impident  young  ones  I  ever  see, 
them  Puffer  twins  is  the  beatenest!"  Abby  Whiton 
set  down  a  plate  of  pallid  doughnuts  before  her  mis- 
tress with  her  customary  definite  thump.  "I  sent 
'em  a-flyin',  though,  with  a  flea  in  their  years !  What 
you  s'pose  they  was  doin'  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  started  to  her  feet,  a  pink  flush  stain- 
ing the  wan  whiteness  of  her  cheeks.  "  The  Puffer 
twins,  did  you  say  ? "  she  demanded  excitedly.  "  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  them.  Where  are  they?  I 
want  to  see  them ! " 

35 


36     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Home,  I  sh'd  hope,  by  this  time,"  said  Abby  tartly. 
"They  was  diggin'  up  your  posies  as  cool  as  cow- 
cumbers  ;  they  sez " 

"I  told  them  they  might— Oh,  Abby!" 

That  estimable  person  stared  in  open-mouthed 
astonishment  at  sight  of  her  mistress  running  bare- 
headed through  the  chilly  April  morning. 

"  Wait ! "  she  was  calling  shrilly  after  the  two  little 
hurrying  figures.  "  Wait  for  me ! " 

The  Puffer  twins  did  not  wait;  they  only  ran  the 
faster,  and  defiantly  clanged  the  latch  of  their  own 
gate  in  Miss  Cynthia's  face  as  she  came  up  panting 
and  breathless.  "  It  was  all  a  mistake,"  she  managed 
to  say.  "  I  forgot  to  tell  Abby  about  the  daffodils. 
She  didn't  know." 

The  twins  stared  at  her  in  resentful  silence  through 
the  pickets  of  the  gate. 

"Won't  you  come  back  with  me  and  get  them?" 
implored  Miss  Cynthia,  with  heartfelt  distress.  "  Then 
— there  is  the  picnic,  you  know." 

The  tallest  twin  nudged  her  sister  and  giggled. 
"We  told  our  mother  'bout  the  red  apples  an'  the 
jam,"  she  said  at  last.  "  'N'  ma,  she  said  she  guessed 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     37 

we'd  been  listenin'  with  our  elbows.  She  said  you 
never  gave  anythin'  away  if  you  could  help  it." 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
two  children,  a  painful  lump  rising  in  her  throat. 
"  Oh ! "  she  said  weakly,  "  I — I  do  want  to  give  things 
away ;  I  always  wanted  to.  Won't  you  come  and  get 
the  daffodils — please  come !  " 

The  gate  swung  open  tentatively. 

"  Please  come,"  repeated  Miss  Cynthia  humbly.  She 
smiled  wanly  as  she  held  out  a  blue  little  hand  to  each 
of  the  children.  "  I  like  to  take  hold  of  hands,"  she 
said. 

Abby  Whiton  was  standing  at  the  side  door,  shad- 
ing her  astonished  eyes  with  her  hand,  when  the  three 
came  into  the  yard.  "  Fer  goodness  sake ! "  she 
ej  aculated,  "  what  in  under  the  sun's  got  int' 
Jier?  " 

She  kept  peering  out  of  the  window  in  the  intervals 
of  gathering  the  breakfast  dishes  together,  while  Miss 
Cynthia  and  the  two  children  busied  themselves  in  the 
weedy  little  border.  They  were  undoubtedly  digging 
up  the  daffodils.  The  next  time  she  reconnoitred 
she  beheld  her  mistress  coming  slowly  toward  the 


38     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

house,  closely  followed  by  the  twins,  who  trampled 
recklessly  upon  her  unguarded  skirts. 

"  Come  right  in ! "  said  Miss  Cynthia  hospitably. 

Abby  Whiton  presented  a  warlike  front  on  the 
threshold.  "  They  ain't  a-comin'  in  here  one  step  tell 
they've  wiped  their  feet  good! "  she  announced. 
"Fer  the  lan's  sake!  jest  look  at  the  mud!  What 
you  s'pose  your  ma'd  say  to  them  feet  on  her 
carpets  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  seem  to  hear;  she  opened  the 
door  wide.  "  Come  in — please ! "  she  entreated.  "  I'll 
get  the  apples  right  away,  and  the  jam." 

Abby  Whiton  shut  her  thin  lips  together  firmly  while 
her  mistress  hastily  opened  a  jar  of  the  precious  red- 
raspberry  jam.  "  Cut  some  slices  of  bread,  Abby, 
and  bring  up  six  of  the  biggest  apples  you  can  find," 
said  Miss  Cynthia  hurriedly.  "We're  going  on  a 
picnic." 

."On — a — picnic!"  repeated  Abby  shrilly.  "Well, 
of  all  the  redic'lous  idees!  I'd  planned  to  begin 
house  cleanin'  to-day ;  I  guess  we've  put  it  off  a'ready 
'bout  as  long  as  decent  folks  kin.  The's  all  them 
trunks  to  go  through  in  the  attic,  an' " 


.The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     39 

"  I'm  not  going  to  clean  house  this  spring,"  faltered 
Miss  Cynthia,  trembling  guiltily  under  the  severe 
scrutiny  of  the  woman's  eyes.  "  I — I'm  tired  of  stay- 
ing in  the  house  all  the  while,  and — and  doing  the 
same  things.  I've  decided  to  have  a  picnic  'most 
every  day  after  this.  You  can  wash  the  windows, 
Abby,  or  do  anything  you  like ;  but  I " 

"  Well,  I  want-ta-know !  "  ejaculated  Abby  Whiton. 
She  clattered  down  the  cellar  stairs  in  a  whirlwind  of 
righteous  indignation,  muttering  ominously  to  herself. 

Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  frightened,  flushed  face,  crept 
into  the  sitting  room,  whence  issued  the  sound  of  ex- 
cited giggles.  The  twins  had  climbed  upon  two 
chairs,  and  were  staring  at  their  distorted  reflections 
in  the  old-fashioned  mirror  above  the  mantel  piece. 
"  It  makes  us  look  funny,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  twins, 
clambering  briskly  down  at  Miss  Cynthia's  approach. 
"  Did  you  ever  look  in  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  depressed 
sigh ;  "  but  I  never  thought  it  was  funny." 

"  Well,  it  is  funny,"  said  the  child  positively.  "  It 
makes  us  laugh.  Come  on,  Ed;  I  guess  we're  goin' 
now." 


40     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  weakly  astonished.  "  I  thought 
her  name  was " 

"  It's  Edwina,"  giggled  the  little  girl,  "  and  mine's 
Harriet.  But  our  pa  calls  us  Ed  and  Harry  'most  all 
the  time.  He  says  we're  'most  exactly  like  boys,  so 
we  might  as  well  have  boys'  names.  What's  your 
name  'sides  Miss  Cynthia  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  blushed  delicately.  "  Once — a  long 
time  ago,  somebody  called  me  June,"  she  said,  as  if 
talking  to  herself.  "  He — said  I  looked  like — j  ust 
like  a  lovely  day  in  June,  when  the  roses  were  in  blos- 
som. He  called  me  that — June  Day.  It  was  so  long 
ago  that  I  had  forgotten  it,  till — yesterday.  Then 
I  remembered  about  it ! " 

The  children  were  regarding  her  attentively.  They 
said  nothing. 

Miss  Cynthia  fidgeted  uneasily  under  the  gaze  of 
their  candid  brown  eyes.  "  I  don't  suppose,"  she 
murmured,  "  that  I  look  like  that — now." 

"We  think  you'd  look  some  better  if  you  were  fat- 
ter," said  Harriet  doubtfully,  "  an'  if  you  had  on  a 
pink  dress,  an'  if  your  hair  was  curled." 

"Here's     your     apples,"    snapped   Abby   Whiton, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     41 

thrusting  her  hatchet  face  in  at  the  open  door.  "  But 

of  all  the  fool  doin's  /  ever  heerd  of You'll 

ketch  yer  death  o'  cold  fer  one  thing.  This  ain't  no 
time  of  year  fer  eatin'  victuals  outdoors." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  packing  the  sandwiches  and  apples 
into  a  little  splint  basket.  "  Of  course  I  shall  wear 
my  rubbers,  Abby,"  she  said  with  dignity.  "  Besides, 
I — I  don't  care  if  I  do  take  cold.  I  shall  take  cold 
if  I  wish ! " 

It  was  surprisingly  pleasant  in  the  April  woods.  The 
pale  sunshine  flickered  cheerfully  through  the  leafless 
branches  and  lay  in  warm  patches  on  the  wet,  brown 
leaves  and  sodden  mosses.  The  Puffer  twins  screamed 
with  delight  at  sight  of  the  first  downy-stemmed  he- 
paticas,  clustered  bluely  at  the  foot  of  a  giant 
beech.  "  Don't  pick  'em,"  cried  Harriet,  hurling 
herself  bodily  upon  her  eager  sister.  "  Let's  let  her 
have  'em;  we'll  find  some  more.  Look!  there's  white 
ones  over  there!  An'  I'm  most  sure  I  c'n  smell 
arbutus ! " 

Miss  Cynthia  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  nodding 
blue  flowers.  "  Oh ! "  she  murmured.  She  touched 
the  dainty  things  with  her  pallid  little  fingers,  a  soft 


42     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

rapture  of  happiness  thrilling  her  through  and 
through.  She  did  not  pick  them. 

The  children  returning  with  blossom-crowded  hands 
stood  quite  still  and  regarded  her  curiously.  "  She's 
just  a-lookin'  at  'em,"  whispered  Harriet.  "  She 
hasn't  picked  one." 

"  I  guess  she  thinks  they're  most  too  pretty  to 
pick,"  said  Edwina,  with  a  little  sigh  of  under- 
standing. 

"More  likely  she's  thinkin'  'bout  the  apples,"  said 
Harriet  with  a  practical  air.  "  She  looks  pretty 
hungry,  anyway,  an'  I'm  most  starved." 

Nobody  in  either  the  Breyfogle  or  the  Day  families, 
as  far  as  Miss  Cynthia  knew,  had  ever  been  hungry 
for  their  food.  She  was  entirely  familiar  with  cer- 
tain unpleasant  sensations  at  the  pit  of  her  stomach, 
to  which  it  had  been  her  habit  to  refer  as  "  my  faint 
spells."  That  these  "faint  spells"  frequently  pre- 
faced one  of  Abby  Whiton's  pallid  meals  served  in 
the  curtained  gloom  of  the  Breyfogle  dining  room, 
Miss  Cynthia  was  well  aware ;  but  she  had  never  mis- 
taken them  for  common,  vulgar  appetite.  She  ob- 
served the  rapturous  looks  of  anticipation  on  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     43 

round,  freckled  faces  of  the  children  with  astonished 
interest. 

"  Hm-m-m ! "  sighed  the  twins  in  soulful  concert, 
as  their  sharp,  white  teeth  sank  juicily  into  the  shin- 
ing sides  of  two  red  apples. 

"Do  they  taste  good?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia  incred- 
ulously. 

"  Uh-huh,"  assented  Harriet,  with  wordless  satis- 
faction. "  Why  don't  you  eat  yours?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  bit  timidly  into  one  of  the  rosy  spheres. 
"  I  neglected  to  bring  my  fruit-knife,"  she  murmured 
apologetically ;  then  quite  forgot  how  "  unlady-like  " 
it  was  to  bite  an  apple  in  her  amazed  enjoyment  of 
its  novelty. 

"  We'd  better  save  the  rest  till  we're  hungry  again," 
observed  Harriet  frugally.  "  It's  an  awful  long  time 
till  this  afternoon,  an'  we'll  be  most  starved  time  we 
get  up  on  Byer's  hill.  There's  heaps  of  wintergreens 
up  there,  and  they'll  be  chuck  full  of  berries.  Come 
on ;  let's  hurry ! " 

It  was  a  long  tramp  through  briar-set  pastures  and 
scrubby  woodlands;  there  were  high  rail-fences  to 
climb  over,  and  shallow  brooks  to  cross  on  slippery, 


44     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

round  stones.  Miss  Cynthia's  unaccustomed  little 
feet  ached  cruelly ;  her  breath  came  in  hurried  gasps ; 
but  she  doggedly  followed  the  indefatigable  twins,  who 
skipped  over  the  ground  like  a  pair  of  red  squirrels. 

Edwina's  quick,  brown  eyes  were  the  first  to  observe 
her  distress.  "  Why,  you're  gettin'  real  tired,  aren't 
you?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

Miss  Cynthia's  lips  quivered;  her  eyes  filled  with  a 
sudden  rush  of  childish  tears.  "  I — I'm  afraid  I  can't 
— go  much  farther."  she  faltered.  "  My  side  aches 
so,  and ' 

"  It's  your  clo'es,"  pronounced  Harriet  briefly. 
"  You  can't  run  an'  climb  fences  when  you  're  a  lady. 
Sometimes  we  play  lady  on  rainy  afternoons ;  but  we're 
are  n't  ever  goin'  to  be  truly  ladies.  "Tisn't  any  fun. 
You  c'n  sit  down  here  an'  rest,  an'  we'll  go  up  on  the 
hill  an'  get  the  wintergreens ;  after  that  we'll  go  home. 
We'll  bring  you  some  of  every  single  thing  we  find — 
cross  our  hearts  we  will !  " 

Miss  Cynthia  sank  tremulously  down  upon  a  par- 
ticularly damp  and  mouldering  log  which  one  of  the 
twins  kindly  pointed  out.  It  was  so  delightful  to 
merely  rest  that  she  drew  deep  breaths  of  satisfaction. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     45 

Presently  she  recalled  the  fact  that  a  meeting  of  the 
executive  committee  of  the  Ladies'  Aid  and  Mis- 
sionary Society  had  been  appointed  at  her  house  that 
afternoon.  Consulting  her  watch  she  found  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reach  home  in  time  to  receive 
the  committee.  She  reviewed  the  correlated  facts  with 
dreamy  indifference.  Abby  Whiton  would  open  the 
door,  she  knew.  She  would,  in  all  probability,  tell  the 
committee  about  the  Puffer  twins  digging  up  the  daf- 
fodils ;  also,  she  would  describe  in  detail  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  picnic,  concluding  with  a  spirited  account 
of  her  own  subsequent  industries  and  anxieties.  Abby 
Whiton  was  quite  as  well  known  and  respected  in  the 
community  as  any  one  of  the  matrons  who  formed  the 
committee,  hence  her  account  of  the  singular  doings 
of  Miss  Cynthia  would  merit,  and  receive,  the  gravest 
consideration. 

Miss  Cynthia  contemplated,  as  in  a  vision,  the  solemn 
consternation  of  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  and  the  wondering 
astonishment  of  the  others.  It  did  not  appear  to  her 
as  at  all  important. 

She  presently  forgot  the  meeting  altogether,  as  she 
rose  uncertainly  to  her  feet  and  strolled  away  from  the 


46     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

neighbourhood  of  the  damp  log,  leaving  the  little 
splint  basket  behind  her. 

The  remark  of  Mrs.  Puffer,  as  truthfully  reported 
by  the  twins  recurred  to  her  mind.  "  I  never  thought 
much  about  giving  my  things  away,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  We  never  gave  things  away  at  our  house. 
Grandmother  Breyfogle  used  to  say  it  wasn't  so  much 
charity  with  most  folks  as  it  was  pure  laziness.  She 
said  it  was  easier  to  pack  a  lot  of  stuff  off  onto  other 
shiftless  folks  than  it  was  to  take  care  of  it.  But 
there  is  no  use  for  me  to  keep  things  now.  I  may  as 
well  give  everything  away." 

Unconsciously  she  had  walked  faster  and  faster  as  she 
pursued  this  course  of  reminiscent  reasoning.  Hav- 
ing arrived  at  its  simple  conclusion  she  stopped  short 
and  looked  about  her.  The  open  pasture  had  grad- 
ually given  place  to  a  thick,  solemn-looking  wood. 
Ground-pine  and  russet  mosses,  elastic  and  fragrant, 
stilled  the  sound  of  her  little  feet.  There  was  a 
subtle,  alluring  sweetness  abroad,  mingling  with  the 
spicy  breath  of  the  trees.  Miss  Cynthia's  short- 
sighted blue  eyes  wandered  hopefully  to  a  steep  bank 
covered  with  brown  leaves  and  the  discarded  needles  of 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     47 

the  great  pine  trees  which  stood  guardian  above  it. 
Once,  a  long  time  ago,  she  had  run  away  from  school 
on  an  April  day — with  the  boy.  And  on  a  bank  like 
this — her  eager  fingers  stirred  the  withered  leaves — 
they  had  found Oh,  the  young  rapture  of  it! 

The  wild  fragrance  swept  her  faded  cheek  like  a 
caress.  She  cried  aloud  with  the  ecstasy  of  her  dis- 
covery— arbutus,  pink  and  white  like  a  baby's  palm, 
folded  close  in  rosy  buds,  opened  wide  like  white  stars. 
Her  sombre  little  world  disappeared  in  a  rose-tinted 
mist  of  happiness;  pain,  disappointment,  loneliness, 
the  long  shadow  of  approaching  3eath — all  was  for- 
gotten in  the  delightful,  the  satisfying  vision  of  the 
moment. 

And  always  just  beyond  stretched  another  starry 
slope,  or  a  bank  yielding  pinker  and  more  odorous 
buds.  She  bound  the  flowers  into  great  bunches  and 
swung  them  upon  her  arm  that  her  hands  might  be 
empty  for  more.  Then  the  gentle  madness  passed,  and 
by  slow  degrees  she  realised  that  the  bright  afternoon 
light  had  faded,  and  that  a  lonely  little  wind,  presag- 
ing rain,  was  beginning  to  cry  among  the  tree  tops. 

Miss  Cynthia  called  aloud  upon  the  Puffer  twins  in  a 


48     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

shrill,  frightened  voice;  then  she  hurried  through  a 
rough  pasture,  leaving  bits  of  her  black  gown  on  the 
clutching  briars,  only  to  find  her  way  barred  by  an  un- 
familiar stone  wall. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  road  was  a  narrow  and 
very  muddy  road,  which  seemed  to  Miss  Cynthia's 
tired  eyes  to  stretch  away  up  to  the  lonely  sky  in  one 
direction,  and  to  lose  itself  in  a  gloomy  wood  at  the 
other.  She  weakly  adventured  herself  upon  the  stone 
wall,  but  the  stones  slipped  uncertainly  beneath  her 
tired  feet.  Then  she  sat  down  and  wept  large,  childish 
tears  of  pure  fright  and  fatigue. 


IV 

THE  melancholy  procedure  of  shedding  tears  is  fre- 
quently followed  by  a  definite  and  cheerful  reaction. 
This  doubtless  accounts  for  the  fact  that  many  per- 
sons of  a  weak  and  lymphatic  disposition  are  prone  to 
indulge  in  what  has  been  aptly  termed  "  the  luxury  of 
grief."  Miss  Cynthia,  after  crying  helplessly  for 
perhaps  five  minutes,  again  addressed  herself  to  the 
task  of  surmounting  the  stone  wall.  This  time  she 
succeeded  and  landed  on  the  other  side,  breathless  and 
tremulous  with  her  unwonted  exertions. 

The  intermittent  creak  and  rattle  of  wagon  wheels 
reached  her  anxious  ears  from  beyond  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  Presently  the  wagon  itself  hove  into  view.  The 
single  brown  horse  which  drew  it  pounded  heavily 
down  the  long,  muddy  slope,  his  course  being  con- 
trolled by  a  ruddy-cheeked  young  man  in  blue  overalls 
who  sat  on  the  high  seat.  A  long  step-ladder  pro- 
truded from  the  back  of  the  vehicle  and  an  alert- 
looking  collie  trotted  briskly  at  the  wheel. 

49 


50     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  instinctively  clutched  at  the  friendly 
wall.  She  ardently  wished  that  she  had  not  climbed 
over ;  it  now  seemed  impossible  to  climb  back,  besides, 
the  alert  collie  had  already  spied  her.  He  dashed  for- 
ward with  loud,  excited  barkings.  Miss  Cynthia 
screamed.  She  was  very  much  afraid  of  dogs,  and  this 
particular  dog  was  spattered  with  mud  to  the  tip  of 
his  curly  tail.  "  Go  away !  "  she  cried  weakly.  "  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do !  Go  away ! "  The  muddy  dog  had 
planted  a  proprietory  paw  on  the  skirt  of  her  gown 
and  was  snuffing  his  find  with  a  doggish  grin  of  satis- 
faction. 

The  young  man  drew  up  his  clumsy  horse  with  a  loud 
"  Whoa ! — Here,  Rover,  you  rascal !  Down,  sir, 
down ! "  he  commanded.  "  He  won't  hurt  you, 
ma'am,"  he  added,  staring  curiously  at  the  shrinking 
little  figure  flattened  thinly  against  the  stone  wall. 

"  I — I've  lost  my  way,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Cyn- 
thia, striving  vainly  to  regain  her  vanished  dignity. 
Fresh  tears  clouded  her  blue  eyes,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  wink  fast  to  keep  them  from  falling  down  her 
cheeks.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  distrusting  strange 
men  quite  as  deeply  as  she  did  dogs,  and  indeed  had 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     51 

vaguely  associated  both  with  those  lines  from  Reve- 
lations which  refer  to  the  unfortunates  shut  out 
from  the  celestial  city  as  "  dogs  and  sorcerers  and 
whoremongers  and  whosoever  maketh  and  loveth  a 
lie."  The  late  Mrs.  Day  had  once  inscribed  this 
passage  of  Scripture  upon  a  thin  strip  of  paper,  and 
after  reading  the  sounding  words  with  an  awful  voice 
had  snipped  them  into  small,  square  pieces  and  com- 
pelled her  child  to  swallow  them  one  by  one.  It  was 
this  novel  and  imposing  punishment  for  a  very  small 
lie  which  formed  the  unassailable  basis  of  Miss 
Cynthia's  opinion  of  dogs  and  men. 

This  particular  young  man  was  looking  at  her  very 
kindly  and  reassuringly  out  of  a  pair  of  honest  gray 
eyes ;  as  for  the  muddy  collie,  he  had  retreated  to  a 
position  behind  his  master  and  was  also  eyeing  her  in  a 
speculative,  but  entirely  friendly  manner. 

"  I  think  I  know  you,"  said  the  young  man,  in  his 
pleasant,  deep  voice.  "  You  are  Miss  Day  of  Innis- 
field.  My  name  is  George  Blossom ;  I'm  sorry  to  say 
I've  frequently  stolen  apples  off  the  sweeting  tree 
back  of  your  barn,  when  I  was  a  boy.  How  good  they 
were,  to  be  sure,  and  how  indignant  the  tall  woman  in 


52     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

&  purple  calico  gown  used  to  be  when  she  caught  us, 
which  wasn't  often." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Abby  Whiton,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia,  in  a  depressed  voice.  "  She's  nearly  always 
indignant  about  something.  How — how  far  is  it  to 
Innisfield,  and  which  way  must  I  go  to  get  there  ?  " 

"  It's  a  matter  of  three  miles  to  the  village,  Miss 
Day,"  the  young  man  told  her,  "  I'm  going  home  my- 
self, and  if  you  won't  mind  riding  in  my  wagon  I 
shall  be  glad  to  take  you.  It  will  be  easier  than  walk- 
ing, anyway." 

"  I  haven't  any  idea  where  the  twins  can  be,"  sighed 
Miss  Cynthia ;  "  they  may  be  looking  for  me."  Then, 
seeing  the  puzzled  look  in  the  young  man's  eyes,  she 
entered  into  an  explanation  of  some  length  concern- 
ing the  picnic,  and  the  wintergreen  hunt,  and  of  how 
the  little  splint  basket,  containing  three  red  apples  and 
six  slices  of  bread  and  butter,  had  been  left  by  the  log. 
"I  forgot  how  late  it  was  growing  after  I  found  the 
arbutus,"  she  finished.  "  I  haven't  seen  any  before  in 
years." 

The  puzzled  look  had  only  deepened  as  she  went  on 
with  her  halting  little  story.  But  the  young  man 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     53 

laughed  outright  when  she  mentioned  the  Puffer 
twins.  "  I'll  risk  Ed  and  Harry  Puffer  in  any  part 
of  the  country,"  he  said.  "  They'll  probably  go 
straight  home  after  they've  eaten  up  everything  in 
the  basket.  You'd  better  get  right  in  with  me  and 
go  to  the  village.  We'll  stop  at  the  Puffers'  on  the 
way  and  see  if  the  children  have  come." 

He  lifted  Miss  Cynthia  to  the  high  seat  of  the 
wagon,  and  they  were  presently  rattling  down  the 
muddy  road  behind  the  big  brown  horse  at  what 
seemed  a  reckless  rate  of  speed. 

"  I've  just  finished  a  job,"  observed  George  Blossom, 
by  way  of  making  conversation.  He  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder  in  an  explanatory  manner  which 
seemed  to  include  the  long  step-ladder  and  a  half 
dozen  of  sticky  pails  which  danced  noisily  on  the  un- 
steady bed  of  the  wagon.  "  I'm  a  painter  and  paper- 
hanger  by  trade,"  he  went  on,  with  a  scowl  which 
looked  decidedly  out  of  place  on  his  ruddy,  good- 
humoured  face. 

Miss  Cynthia  had  surreptitiously  attached  herself 
with  barnacle-like  firmness  to  the  low  rail  which  sur- 
rounded the  wagon  seat  on  one  side,  and  to  George 


54     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Blossom's  coat  on  the  other.  She  was  really  afraid 
she  might  fall  off  in  some  mad,  unexpected  plunge  of 
the  stolid,  brown  horse;  and  this  fear  of  the  animal 
had  in  great  degree  lessened  her  apprehension  of  the 
man  who  drove  it.  "  Don't  you  think  we — we're  going 
pretty  fast  ? "  she  faltered,  as  the  wagon  wheel 
lurched  violently  over  a  stone. 

"  Why,  perhaps  we  are,"  said  George  Blossom,  pull- 
ing his  horse  to  a  walk  and  glancing  quizzically  down 
at  the  small,  scared  face  by  his  side.  "You  are  n't 
used  to  driving,  I  reckon?  " 

"  Not — not  exactly.  I've  ridden  in  carriages, 
though,  a  good  deal  to — to  funerals.  That  seems 
different,  you  know ;  you  can't  see  the  horses  for  one 
thing,  and  they  generally  go  nice  and  slow." 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it  is,  quite  different,"  agreed  the  young 
fellow  soberly.  Then  his  eyes  twinkled.  "  You've 
got  a  big  house,  Miss  Day ;  did  you  ever  think  how 
scrumptious  it  would  look  if  you  had  it  all  painted  up 
outside?  Say  a  light,  steel  gray;  or  a  white,  with  a 
green  trim  and  green  blinds ;  then  for  inside  work,  I've 
got  paper  that  can't  be  beat ;  white  grounds  with  roses 
running  all  over  'em  as  natural  as  life,  or  floral 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     55 

stripes,  or  bunches  of  different  sorts  of  posies  tied 
with  pink  an'  blue  ribbons — oh,  they're  great !  I  wisK 
you'd  give  me  the  job  of  fixing  up  your  place." 

"  I  never  thought  of  doing  anything  to  the  house," 
said  Miss  Cynthia  meditatively.  "  It's  always  looked 
just  as  it  does  now  since  I  can  remember.  Grand- 
father Breyfogle  had  it  papered  when  he  was  married. 
The  papers  were  all  very  nice  and  expensive ;  that  on 
the  parlour  walls  cost  four  dollars  a  roll.  It  was  im- 
ported from  England." 

The  young  man  whistled.  "  I'll  bet  I  could  put  you 
up  something  twice  as  pretty  for — say  seventy-five 
cents,"  he  hazarded.  "  You  want  white  paint  rubbed 
down  to  an  ivory  finish  for  those  old-fashioned  rooms, 
and  something  light  and  handsome  for  the  side  walls. 
I've  just  been  doing  up  Mrs.  Scott's  parlour  and  din- 
ing room — the  parlour  in  kind  of  a  soft,  dull  green, 
and  the  dining  room  in  blue  and  white.  Then  I  did 
Miss  Rosalie's  rooms.  Gracious,  if  they  ain't  pretty ! 
I  wish  you  could  see  them !  " 

"  I  remember  Rosalie  Scott,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with 
a  reminiscent  frown ;  "  she  always  used  to  giggle  out 
loud  in  sermon  time.  Once  I  gave  her  a  head  of  cara- 


56     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

way,  and  she  pulled  it  to  pieces  and  stuck  the  seeds  all 
over  Deacon  Scrimger's  coat  in  a  sort  of  pattern.  Her 
mother  never  once  looked  that  way,  though  I  should 
think  she'd  have  expected  'most  anything  of  Rosalie." 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
heartily.  "  I  guess  Mrs.  Scott  didn't  want  to  bother 
Miss  Rosalie  as  long  as  she  was  quiet,"  he  said.  "  She 
was  a  regular  mischief  when  she  was  little.  She's 
come  back  from  boarding-school  now,  to  stay,  and  she 
— she's  just  beautiful!  " 

The  young  man's  tone  was  so  earnest  and  heartfelt 
that  Miss  Cynthia  felt  a  sympathetic  thrill.  "  I'd 
like  to  see  her,"  she  said,  almost  eagerly.  "What 
sort  of  paper  did  you  put  on  her  room,  did  you 
Bay?" 

"  Miss  Rosalie's  got  two  rooms,  now  she's  home  for 
good,"  the  young  man  told  her,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  I 
can  show  you  samples  of  the  papers  if  you'll  just 
hold  the  lines  while  I*get  'em ;  they're  under  the  seat." 

Miss  Cynthia  grasped  the  reins  so  firmly  that  her  lit- 
tle hands  trembled.  She  sat  up  very  straight  and  a 
pink  spot  burned  in  each  sallow  cheek.  Mr.  Blossom 
did  not  appear  to  notice  her  agitation.  He  got  down 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     57 

off  the  seat,  thrust  one  long,  exploring  arm  beneath  it 
and  presently  produced  a  bundle  of  small  rolls  of  wall- 
paper, which  he  proceeded  to  spread  out  on  his  knee 
for  Miss  Cynthia's  inspection. 

"  There,  this  one  with  a  kind  of  a  cream-white 
ground  and  little  wreaths  of  roses  running  all  over 
it  is  on  her  bedroom.  I  put  white  enamel  paint  on  the 
woodwork,  and  she's  got  her  grandmother's  old 
mahogany  furniture  in  there,  and — 

The  young  man  stopped  short  and  looked  at  his 
companion  curiously.  Her  blue  eyes  were  fixed 
earnestly  on  the  bobbing  head  of  the  brown  horse ;  her 
lips  were  screwed  up  into  a  small  pink  knot,  not  un- 
like one  of  the  pale  rosebuds  on  the  white  wall-paper. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  look  at  these  papers,  ma'am, 
now  I've  got  'em  out?  "  he  asked  in  a  disappointed 
voice. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  and  drive  this  horse,"  replied 
Miss  Cynthia,  in  a  tone  of  poignant  distress.  "  Seems 
to  me  the  harder  I  pull  on  the  lines  the  faster  he  goes. 
Look — he's — running  away ! " 

Mr.  Blossom  reached  over  and  possessed  himself  of 
the  reins,  which  he  proceeded  to  hold  negligently  in  his 


58     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

left  hand,  while  he  dlscanted  at  length  on  the  beauty 
of  the  wall-papers  and  the  elegance  of  the  apartments 
in  the  Scott  house.  "  If  I  could  only  get  a  few  more 
jobs  like  that  one  maybe  I  could  get  somewhere  in  the 
world,"  he  concluded,  his  frank  face  clouding  like  the 
inconstant  April  sky.  "  I've  always  wanted  to  study 
designing  and  inside  decorating  on  a  big  scale.  I 
could  do  it,  I  know  I  could,  if  I  only  had  a  chance. 
But  I  suppose  I'll  spend  the  balance  of  my  days 
painting  the  village  folks'  picket  fences,  and  giving 
the  farmers'  barns  an  occasional  coat  of  red  paint, 
when  they  ain't  too  darned  stingy  to  give  me  the 
job." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  the  air  of  a 
person  who  consciously  exerts  an  influence,  "  that  you 

ought  to  say Well,  I  don't  like  to  speak  the 

word  myself,  because  it  means  real  bad  swearing.  I 
said  it  once  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  my  mother 
snipped  my  tongue  with  a  pair  of  sharp  scissors. 
Of  course  she  didn't  really  cut  a  piece  off;  but  it 
made  a  sore  place,  and  I  always  remember  it  when 
I  hear  that  word." 

"  Jiminy ;    I    should    think    you    would ! "    agreed 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     59 

George  Blossom,  with  a  surprised  whistle.  "  It  seems 
to  go  mighty  well  with  words  like  stingy  and  mean, 
though,"  he  added.  "  I'd  kind  of  hate  to  give  it  up." 

Miss  Cynthia  fixed  her  blue  eyes  upon  the  young  man 
with  an  inquiring  gaze.  "  Did  you  ever  hear  anyone 
say  that  I  was  stingy  ?  "  she  asked  distinctly. 

Mr.  Blossom  blushed  a  beautiful,  surprised-looking 
red;  even  his  ears  burned  scarlet  under  the  light 

brown  curls  of  his  hair.  "  I — I  didn't  mean "  he 

began  with  evident  distress.  "  I'm  sure  I " 

Miss  Cynthia  sighed.  She  was  not  a  very  astute  lit- 
tle person,  but  she  arrived  at  a  rapid  and  correct  con- 
clusion for  once.  "  I  see  that  you  have,"  she  said  re- 
gretfully. "  Well,  do  you  know,  I  never  thought  very 
much  about  it — about  being  stingy,  I  mean,  till — till 
yesterday.  Yesterday  I  heard  something — some- 
thing very  important  to  me.  It — it  somehow  changed 
— everything.  I  think  I've  been  very  foolish  to  be  so 
— so  saving.  I  didn't  really  need  to  be  economical, 
you  know.  And  I've  decided  to  give  nearly  everything 
in  my  house  away.  I  shall  not  need  it  myself,  and  I'm 
sure  I  shall  enjoy  giving  it  away.  It — it  will  be  dif- 
ferent." 


60     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Mr.  Blossom  was  so  astonished  that  he  could  hardly 
believe  what  his  scarlet  ears  were  telling  him.  The 
Breyfogle  family  were,  in  the  estimation  of  their 
townspeople,  an  unalterable  proposition.  One  could 
depend  upon  their  stinginess  quite  as  implicitly  as  on 
other  folks'  generosity.  To  be  depended  upon  in  any 
capacity  is  in  itself  praiseworthy ;  and  nobody  likes  to 
have  the  fixed  stars  of  his  firmament  turned  inconti- 
nently into  frisking  comets.  Mr.  Blossom,  therefore, 
upon  hearing  these  surprising  sentiments  from  the  lips 
of  Miss  Cynthia  Day,  merely  gave  vent  to  a  conserva- 
tive whistle.  He  was  one  of  those  fortunate  persons, 
usually  of  the  sterner  sex,  who  are  able  to  express  a 
large  number  of  varied  emotions  in  this  entirely  safe 
and  non-committal  manner. 

"I  can't  think  just  how  to  begin,"  pursued  Miss 
Cynthia  earnestly.  "I  don't  know  who  to  give  the 
things  to,  in  the  first  place." 

The  sagacious  Mr.  Blossom  saw  his  opportunity  and 
seized  it  with  business-like  promptness.  "  I  think, 
ma'am,"  he  said  very  respectfully,  "  that  one  of  the 
best  ways  to  give  things  away — that  is,  if  you  have 
too  much  of  anything,  money,  for  example — is  to  give 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     61 

work  to  the  people  that  need  work,  and  pay  them  well 
for  it.  Some  folks  Jew  you  down  so't  you  can't  make 
any  sort  of  a  profit.  'Live  and  let  live'  is  a  good 
enough  motto  for  me." 

" '  Live  and  let  live,' "  repeated  Miss  Cynthia 
thoughtfully.  "  What  do  you  think  that  means  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  plain  enough,"  said  Mr.  Blossom 
strongly.  "  You're  living  all  right,  ain't  you?  Got 
enough  of  everything  and  something  to  spare,  if 
you've  a  mind  to ;  but  you've  got  to  '  let '  other  folks 
live;  and  that  means,  I  take  it,  that  you  ought  to 
help  'em  to  live.  If  there's  anything  you  want  done 
that  you  can't  do  for  yourself,  hire  somebody  that 
can  do  it,  and  pay  'em  for  doing  it — good,  fair 
money,  so  they  can  live,  too.  If  everybody  did  that 
right  along  I  guess  there  wouldn't  be  so  much  talk 
about  labour  unions  and  strikes  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

Miss  Cynthia  smiled  vaguely.  "I  guess  so,  too," 
she  said  pleasantly.  Then  she  sighed.  "I  wish  it 
was  true,"  she  murmured. 

"  Wish  what  was  true?  " 

"  About  living — if  you  let  other  folks  live." 


62     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Course  it's  true ;  who  said  it  wasn't  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  people  die,  you  know,  when — when  they 
aren't  very  old,  and  when  they  don't  want  to  die, 
either.  How  do  you  explain  that?  " 

Mr.  Blossom  appeared  slightly  staggered  by  this 
metaphysical  problem.  "  I  can't  explain  everything 
that  happens,  of  course,"  he  said  candidly.  "  But," 
he  added  firmly,  "  I  know  that  *  Live  and  let  live '  '11 
stand,  as  a  general  rule.  I  guess  some  folks  could 
quote  Scripture  to  back  it  up,  too.  I  can't  remember 
Bible  verses  for  shucks,  but  there's  something  or  other 
about  getting  the  same  sort  of  crops  out  of  the  ground 
that  you  put  in.  And  that  stands  to  reason  and  ex- 
perience, too,  doesn't  it?  If  you  put  in  potatoes  you 
don't  expect  to  dig  turnips.  You  could  turn  the  say- 
ing 'round,  if  you  wanted  to,  and  it  would  sound  just 
as  well — maybe  better.  Let  live  an'  live." 

Mr.  Blossom  looked  modestly  pleased  with  himself  as 
he  finished  this  pointed  exposition.  "  Miss  Rosalie's  a 
great  hand  for  arguing  about  'most  everything,"  he 
added  irrelevantly.  "  Off  an'  on,  we've  had  some 
regular  debates  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  She's  as 
bright  and  smart  as  a  new  whip,  Miss  Rosalie  is ;  only 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     63 

there  ain't  any  sting  in  her  as  there  is  to  the  end  of  a 
good  whip-lash.  She's  just  sweet!  " 

The  young  man  lapsed  into  a  pleasant  revery  which 
Miss  Cynthia  did  not  disturb.  She  was  considering 
in  her  own  peculiarly  slow,  bewildered,  and  timid  way 
some  very  astonishing  ideas  which  George  Blossom's 
simple  remarks  had  suggested.  But  if  Miss  Cynthia's 
mental  processes  were  sadly  involved  and  clouded,  her 
practical  inferences  were  simple  and  to  the  point. 

"  If  it  will  help  you  any  to  paint  my  house,  inside 
or  out,  or  to  paper  it,"  she  said  with  gentle  dig- 
nity, "  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  have  it  done.  I  shall 
think  of  what  you  have  said.  It  has  never  occurred 
to  me  before ;  yet  it  seems  very  reasonable,  and — yes — 
true.  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  taken  much  pains  to  '  let 
people  live,'  and  that's  why " 

She  stopped  short  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice. 
"And  that's  why," — she  finished  bravely — "I'm  go- 
ing to  do  quite  differently — after  this." 


THE  Puffer  twins  were  energetically  swinging  upon 
their  own  gate  when  George  Blossom,  with  Miss  Cyn- 
thia at  his  side,  drew  up  before  the  house.  "Here 
you  are,  youngsters!"  he  called  out  heartily,  "and 
here's  Miss  Day.  Where  do  you  s'pose  I  found 
her?  " 

The  twins  had  promptly  abandoned  their  athletic 
performance  upon  the  gate  in  favour  of  similar 
strenuous  endeavour  at  the  back  of  the  wagon.  They 
precipitated  themselves  upon  the  person  of  the  young 
man  with  every  token  of  enthusiastic  regard.  "  Did 
you  bring  us  any  apples?  "  they  demanded. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  admitted  Mr.  Blossom  joy- 
ously. "  Just  look  in  my  basket  there ;  and  findings  is 
keepings." 

"  We  didn't  see  you  anywhere,"  Edwina  said,  address- 
ing Miss  Cynthia,  while  Harriet  explored  the  wagon 
like  a  particularly  active  squirrel.  "  But  we  found 
your  basket  and  brought  it  home.  We  saved  two 

64 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     65 

slices  of  bread  and  jam  for  you,  and  one  apple,  and 
we've  put  a  big  bunch  of  wintergreen  berries  in 
besides." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  graciously.  "  I 
found  this  arbutus  and  brought  it  to  you.  Here  is  a 
big  bunch  for  each  of  you." 

"Where's  yours?"  demanded  Harriet.  "Didn't 
you  keep  any  for  yourself?  We  ate  lots  an'  lots  of 
wintergreen  berries  as  we  went  along,  an'  we  brought 
some  home.  We  like  to  be  square." 

Miss  Cynthia  had  opened  her  mouth  to  reply  when 
she  was  transfixed  by  the  sight  of  a  stout,  imposing 
woman,  wearing  a  fortress-like  bonnet  which  com- 
manded a  very  high  and  prominent  forehead.  This 
person  was  advancing  majestically  along  the  sidewalk 
in  company  with  a  much  smaller  lady,  who  was  com- 
pelled to  tilt  her  head  sideways  to  address  her  lofty 
companion.  They  had  been  talking  earnestly  together, 
but  the  conversation  suddenly  ceased  when  they  simul- 
taneously recognised  Miss  Cynthia  in  her  unlooked- 
for  position  on  the  high  seat  of  George  Blossom's 
wagon.  That  young  person  blushed  as  he  lifted  his 
cap  to  the  ladies.  He  was  a  modest  young  man,  was 


86     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

George  Blossom,  and  he  realised  in  his  imperfect 
masculine  way  that  his  companion  had  done  a  very 
singular  thing  in  losing  herself  upon  a  muddy  road 
three  miles  beyond  Innisfield. 

Miss  Cynthia  spoke  first.  She  had  immediately 
recognised  the  tall  lady  as  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  the  chair- 
man of  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  Ladies'  Aid 
Society,  which  was  to  have  met  at  her  house  that 
afternoon.  The  small  lady  was  the  wife  of  the  min- 
ister. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Buckthorn,"  began  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  an  anxiously  propitiatory  smile. 
"I  am  sorry  I  was  not  at  home  this  afternoon  when 
the  committee  called.  I — I  was  away  on  a  picnic, 
and  I  lost  my  way  in  the  woods.  Besides,"  she 
added,  with  undeniable  hardihood,  "  I  forgot  all 
about  the  meeting." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  drew  in  her  breath  in  a  peculiar 
sibilant  fashion  she  was  accustomed  to  make  use  of 
when  surprised  or  displeased.  "  So — I  have  learned," 
she  said  deliberately.  "  Abby  Whiton  told  us  of  the 
picnic.  She  did  not  know  that  you  had — forgotten 
the  appointment.  I  dare  say  you  had  a  very  excel- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     67 

lent  reason  for  what  you  did.  The — Lord's — busi* 
ness  does  not  admit  of — delay  or — negligence  on  the 
part  of  his  servants." 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head.  "I  wanted  to  go," 
she  said  simply,  "  and  so  I  just  forgot  all  about 
the  meeting.  I  hope  it  didn't  put  you  out  very 
much." 

"No,  it  didn't  at  all,"  the  small  lady  spoke  up 
quickly.  "  I  asked  the  committee  to  come  to  the  par- 
sonage, and  we've  had  the  meeting.  I  hope  you  had  a 
pleasant  time,"  she  went  on,  her  smile  touched  with  a 
faint  wistfulness.  "I'd  like  to  go  arbutus  hunting 
myself — I  see  you  have  some.  But  there  seems  to  be 
so  much  to  do  in  the  parish  just  now." 

"  And — house  cleaning,  Philura,"  put  in  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn in  her  majestic  bass.  "  Every  one  of  us  ladies 
left  some — important  household  task — unfinished,  in 
order  to  attend — this  meeting.  I  trust  that  we  shall 
not  be  found — unfaithful  stewards  of  the  mammon  of 
• — unrighteousness  when  the  last  day  comes !  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  clean  house,"  said  Miss  Cynthia 
defiantly.  "  I'm  going  to  have  a  picnic  almost  every 
day." 


68     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Goody !  goody ! "  cried  the  Puffer  twins  in  subdued 
chorus.  "Will  you  bring  jam  on  bread  and  red 
apples  every  time  ?  " 

"As  long  as  they  last,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  them 
cheerfully. 

There  followed  a  prolonged  silence,  in  the  course  of 
which  George  Blossom  stared  hard  at  the  back  of  his 
brown  horse,  and  the  two  women  on  the  sidewalk 
stared  at  Miss  Cynthia.  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  gaze, 
delivered  over  the  rim  of  her  spectacles,  con- 
veyed shocked  incredulity,  majestic  displeasure,  pained 
astonishment,  and  determined  curiosity.  The  light- 
blue  eyes  of  the  minister's  wife  were  opened  wide  in  a 
puzzled  and  surprised  look,  which  Miss  Cynthia  met 
with  a  deprecatory  smile. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  be  movin'  along,  Mis'  Petti- 
bone,"  observed  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  in  the  tone  of  a 
magistrate  who  suspends  sentence.  "  Good-bye,  Cyn- 
thia. I  trust — the  Lord  will  give  you — a  better 
mind — before  you  sleep" 

"  Darned  old  hypocrite ! "  muttered  George  Blossom, 
with  cheerful  acrimony.  "  Do  you  want  to  get  out 
here,  Miss  Day,  or  shall  I  drive  you  on  to  your 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     69 

house?  I'd  like  to  look  the  place  over  as  soon  as  I 
can." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  absent- 
minded  smile.  Then  she  became  conscious  that  the 
young  man's  honest  gray  eyes  were  fixed  inquiringly 
upon  her.  "  I  don't  know  what  people  will  say  when 
I  begin  to  do  the  things — that — that  I  want  to  do. 
I've  always  done  just  what  somebody  else  told  me  to 
do ;  it — it's  easier,  I  guess." 

"  I  s'pose  all  the  old  tabbies  in  town  '11  talk  to  beat 
the  cars  if  you  let  me  have  that  job  of  painting  and 
papering,"  said  George  Blossom  gloomily.  "  But  I'd 
let  'em  talk.  I  would,  by  gracious !  'Tain't  any  of 
their  funeral,  I  guess.  Now,  is  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  curious  little  catch 
in  her  breath.  "  It  certainly  isn't.  I  think — I  shall 
let  them  talk,"  she  went  on  after  a  little  pause.  "  That 
is,  I  can't  help  it  if  they  do  talk ;  but  I  shall  do  as 
I  like." 

Her  blue  eyes  wore  so  puzzled  and  wistful  a  look 
that  George  Blossom  was  moved  to  squeeze  the  little 
hand  she  offered  him  while  he  shook  it  warmly. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  bringing  me  home," 


70     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

said  Miss  Cynthia.  "I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done,  if  you  hadn't  come  along  just  when  you 
did." 

"  Don't  you  mention  it,  ma'am,"  cried  George  Blos- 
som, giving  the  chilly  little  fingers  another  warm 
squeeze.  "  I  can  tell  you  it  was  a  piece  of  rare  good 
fortune  for  me.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  such 
a  thing  as  asking  you  for  a  job.  I'll  be  around  to- 
morrow morning  with  my  colour-cards  and  sample- 
books.  I'll  guarantee  to  do  a  job  that  '11  please  you, 
Miss  Day.  I'll  make  the  old  place  look  simply  great. 
You'll  see!" 

Miss  Cynthia  smiled  in  pleased  anticipation;  she 
was,  nevertheless,  depressed  to  the  point  of  feeling 
utterly  meek  and  despondent  when  she  had  entered 
her  own  door  and  closed  it  behind  her.  Abby  Whiton 
hastened  to  describe  the  visit  of  the  committee  with 
an  amplitude  of  graphic  detail  which  left  room  for 
neither  question  nor  comment. 

"  I  cert'nly  thought  I  should  die  when  I  seen  'em  all 
a-standin'  there,"  she  asseverated;  "Mis'  Buckthorn 
an*  the  minister's  wife — though  she  ain't  much,  as 
all  of  us  knows — an'  Electa  Pratt,  with  the  feathers 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     71 

stickin'  up  straight  in  her  bunnit — she's  always 
wore  'em  sence  Philura  Rice  caught  the  parson  with 
hern.  '  No ! '  I  says,  *  she  ain't  in ;  she's  gone  on  a 
picnic.'  My  land !  I  could  'a'  knocked  'em  down  with 
a  feather  they  looked  s'  thunder-struck.  'To  a 
picnic?'  says  Mis'  Buckthorn.  'Yes,'  I  says,  'with 
the  Puffer  twins! '  I  thought  I  should  die!  " 

"  Suppose  you  should?" 

"Should  what?" 

"  Should  die.  Suppose  you  knew  you  were  going 
to  die — you're  always  talking  about  it.  What  would 
you  do  ?  " 

"  Fer  goodness  sake,  what  an  idee!  I  cert'nly  ain't 
a-goin'  t'  die  tell  m'  time  comes.  Well,  I  guess  I'd 
git  my  kitchen  cleaned  up  good  f  er  one  thing.  Then, 
I'd  plan  out  my  fun'ral,  an'  order  my  tombstone. 
Ma,  she  picked  out  all  her  fun'ral  hymns,  I  remem- 
ber; an'  pa,  he  s'lected  a  tex'  fer  his  fun'ral  sermon. 
He  tol'  us  everythin'  we  was  to  put  on  him  down  to 
his  socks.  He  wanted  all  his  best  things.  Like  es 
not  he  was  'f raid  we'd  save  'em  up  fer  Dave  an'  Will ; 
an'  mebbe  we  would  'uv,  too,  if  pa  hadn't  been  cute 
enough  to  think  it  all  out  beforehand.  Sickness  is 


72     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

sent,  I  s'pose,  so  'at  we  c'n  prepare  for  what's  before 
us.  I  hope  t'  the  land  I  ain't  called  sudden !  " 

"You  may  broil  a  chop  for  my  tea,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia  unexpectedly.  "I  want  it  brown  and  hot. 
I  didn't  have  any  dinner,  you  know.  I  want  some 
toast,  too." 

"Yer  supper's  been  ready  an'  waitin'  fer  half  an 
hour,"  Abby  Whiton  replied,  moving  her  angular  el- 
bows in  a  way  which  signified  a  determined  difference 
of  opinion.  "  The's  dried  beef  an*  pickles  an'  cake 
an'  tea.  I'm  sure  that's  enough  fer " 

Miss  Cynthia  walked  into  the  kitchen.  "Give  me 
the  toasting-fork,"  she  said  tranquilly.  "I  think 
I  should  like  to  get  my  own  supper." 

Abby  Whiton  planted  her  hands  on  her  hips,  her 
elbows  vibrating  rapidly.  "  Git  yer  own  supper ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "Well,  I  want-ta-know ! " 

"  Bring  me  the  chop,  Abby,  and  some  bread,"  or- 
dered Miss  Cynthia,  opening  the  drafts  of  the  stove. 
"I  shall  get  thoroughly  warm  while  I  am  doing  it." 

"Now,  look-a-here,  Miss  Cynthy,  I've  lived  in  this 
'ere  house  goin'  on  thirty  years,  an'  I  ain't  in  the  habit 
of  bavin'  nobody  come  in  my  kitchen  an'  talk  up  to 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     73 

me!  Even  yer  ma  never  done  it  towards  the  last,  an' 
you  know  very  well  that  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stan'  it. 
You  an'  me  ain't  never  had  no  words  before,  an'  I 
don't  see  why  we  should  begin  now.  Seems  to  me 
you've  been  actin'  mighty  notional  an'  uppity  sence 
yiste'd'y.  I've  been  thinkin'  'bout  it  all  day  b* 
spells.  I  remember  when  you  was  little,  you  us't  to 
git  fractious  once  in  a  while,  but  your  ma  or  yer 
Gran'ma  Breyfogle  always  took  it  out  of  ye  mighty 
quick.  As  yer  ma  us't  to  say :  *  Dis'pline  mus'  be 
maintained,'  she  says.  I  never  looked  fer  any  trouble 
in  this  'ere  kitchen ;  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  none, 
neither!" 

Miss  Cynthia  listened  attentively  to  this  manifesto, 
a  worried  but  entirely  stubborn  expression  gathering 
about  her  small  mouth.  Abby  Whiton  was  irresist- 
ibly reminded  of  the  long-defunct  Grandfather  Brey- 
fogle, whose  imperial  dictum  nobody  had  ever  been 
able  to  successfully  contravene.  "Fer  the  lan's 
sake ! "  she  muttered  to  herself,  "  s'pose  she  sh'd  take 
a  turn  after  all  these  years ! " 

When  Miss  Cynthia  spoke  it  was  in  the  Breyfogle 
voice,  and  the  Breyfogle  revolutionary  spirit  looked 


74     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

out  of  her  blue  eyes.  "  You  will  have  to  remember  in 
future,  Abby,  that  this  is  my  kitchen,"  she  said  dis- 
tinctly, "  and  that  it  is  in  my  house.  I  want  you  to 
bring  my  chop  and  two  slices  of  my  bread.  I  shall 
get  my  supper  on  my  stove.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

Abby  Whiton  stared.  "Fer  the  lan's  sake!"  she 
repeated  in  a  sibilant  whisper.  Then  she  whirled 
about  with  loud,  trampling  steps,  more  expres- 
sive of  her  dazed  and  outraged  feelings  than  mere 
profanity,  however  lurid,  cut  the  bread,  brought  the 
chop  from  the  closet,  and  finished  by  slamming  down 
the  toasting-fork  with  an  accentuated  clatter  which 
scared  the  dozing  cat  into  wild-eyed  consternation. 

"  I  c'n  see  what's  a-comin' ! "  she  exclaimed  bitterly. 
"  After  all  these  years,  an*  me  a-slavin'  my  fingers  to 
the  bone  sence  you  was  knee  high  to  a  grasshopper 
an'  never  allowed  no  imperdence  in  this  kitchen.  If 
I  live,  I  leave  to-morrow  mornin',  bag  an'  baggage! " 
She  might  have  added  with  entire  suitability  "and 
may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul." 

Miss  Cynthia  proceeded  to  toast  her  chop  with  out- 
ward calm,  her  mouth  still  wearing  the  Breyfogle 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     75 

expression.  Inwardly,  she  was  quaking  with  long- 
accustomed  dread.  Never  before  in  the  course  of 
her  whole  life  had  she  ventured  to  differ  in  the  slight- 
est degree  with  the  definite  opinions  of  Abby  Whiton. 
She  had,  of  course,  made  a  dignified  but  entirely  su- 
perficial show  of  consulting  her  about  various  house- 
hold activities  and  economies ;  but  in  the  end  she  had 
invariably  yielded  to  Abby  Whiton's  loudly-expressed 
decisions.  Miss  Cynthia's  intellect  refused  to  con- 
template the  consequences  of  her  present  rash  be- 
haviour. 

"To-morrow  mornin',"  repeated  Abby  Whiton  tri- 
umphantly. She  appeared  to  divine  the  real  state  of 
her  mistress's  mind,  and  proceeded  to  pile  Pelion 
upon  Ossa  with  mistaken  energy.  "  I  guess  yer 
poor,  dead  ma  'ud  turn  over  in  her  grave  ef  she  could 
know  that  I'd  been  fairly  driv*  to  leave  her  kitchen 
after  all  these  years.  W'y,  I've  always  intended  to 
lay  you  out,  Miss  Cynthy,  same  as  I  done  fer  her." 

Miss  Cynthia  turned  suddenly ;  her  eyes  blazed.  "  I 
don't  -want  you  to  stay  here,"  she  said  breathlessly. 
"You — you  shall  not  lay  me  out!  Do  you  hear? 
You  shall  not!  I  am  going  to — let  you  live — any- 


76     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

where  you  want  to  except  in  this  kitchen ;  but  I'm 
going  to  do  as  I  please  in  my  own  house  as  long  as 
I  live.  Do  you  hear  me?  " 

"I  ain't  deef,"  snorted  Abby  Whiton.  Then  she 
sprang  forward  just  in  time  to  catch  Miss  Cynthia's 
slight  figure  as  she  swayed  weakly  toward  the  hot 
stove.  "  Did  you  ever!  "  she  muttered  to  herself,  as 
she  skilfully  plied  the  camphor  and  smelling-salts. 
"  She's  jest  plain  beat  out  with  that  redic'lous  pic- 
nic— trampin'  with  a  lot  of  young  ones,  an5  joltin' 
in  a  lumber-wagon  from  goodness  knows  where.  I 
hope  I  c'n  see  my  duty ;  an'  I  shell  do  it ! " 

She  helped  her  mistress  to  bed  with  a  firmness  not 
untouched  with  real  tenderness  which  melted  Miss 
Cynthia's  soul  within  her.  As  she  sat  propped  among 
her  white  pillows  eating  the  chop  and  toast,  which 
Abby  Whiton  presently  set  before  her  with  a  curi- 
ously indulgent  air,  she  reviewed  the  circumstances 
of  her  revolt  with  mild  regret.  "  I'm  sorry  I  spoke 
to  you  just  as  I  did,  Abby,"  she  said  meekly.  "I 
— was  pretty  tired,  I  guess,  and " 

"  Don't  you  say  'nother  word,  Miss  Cynthy ;  it's  all 
right.  I'll  see  'at  you  don't  git  so  tuckered  out  agin, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     77 

that's  all,"  Abby  Whiton  told  her,  with  the  strong 
kindness  of  tone  and  manner  one  would  use  toward 
a  particularly  exasperating  child,  made  ill  by  her 
own  naughtiness. 

Miss  Cynthia  weakly  permitted  the  inference  to 
pass.  But  the  tranquil  stubbornness  of  the  Brey- 
fogles  rested  upon  her  sleeping  features  in  so  marked 
a  degree  that  Abby  Whiton  observed  it  with  fresh 
astonishment  when  she  came  to  remove  the  tray  and 
the  candle.  "My  goodness!  ef  she  ain't  gittin'  to 
be  the  spit  an'  image  of  her  gran'pa ! "  she  murmured, 
"  an'  the  land  knows  he  was  his  own  boss,  's  well  's 
everybody  else's,  to  his  dyin'  day ! " 


VI 

THE  fact  that  the  rain  was  pouring  out  of  a  dun- 
coloured  sky  in  torrents  did  not  damp  the  business 
ardour  of  young  Mr.  Blossom.  He  appeared  at  Miss 
Cynthia's  door  clad  in  a  streaming  mackintosh, 
bearing  a  streaming  umbrella  and  a  huge  package 
of  samples  done  up  in  waterproof  cloth  under  his 
arm. 

"  No,  you  can't  see  Miss  Cynthy ;  she's  flat  on  her 
back  this  mornin',"  Abby  Whiton  informed  him. 
"  I've  jes'  took  her  breakfas'  upstairs,  an'  she  ain't 
a-goin'  to  git  out  o'  bed  to-day.  I  do'  know  but 
what  I  shell  sen'  fer  the  doctor.  'Twouldn't  su'prise 
me  a  mite  ef  she  sh'd  hev  a  long  spell  o'  sickness 
after  what  she  done  yiste'd'y.  Where  in  under  the 
sun  did  you  come  acrost  her,  George?  " 

"Over  on  Scott's  cross-road,  not  far  from  the  old 
red  bridge,"  said  Mr.  Blossom.  He  looked  exceed- 
ingly disappointed.  "Do  you  suppose  she'd  be  able 
to  look  over  these  samples  ?  "  he  asked.  "  She  told 
me  to  bring  'em  this  morning,  sure.  And  of  course 

78 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     79 

the  quicker  I  get  to  work  on  the  job  the  quicker  I 
can  get  it  done." 

"What  job?"  demanded  Abby  Whiton  sharply. 
Her  aspect  was  so  aggressive,  not  to  say  intimidating, 
that  George  Blossom  was  involuntarily  reminded  of 
the  last  time  that  bony  hand  had  seized  upon  him 
from  behind,  just  as  he  was  about  to  pocket  a  particu- 
larly luscious  sweeting. 

He  hesitated  diplomatically.  "Perhaps  I'd  better 
call  again,"  he  said,  with  a  propitiatory  smile.  "I 
don't  want  to  take  your  time,  Abby." 

"  I've  got  time  a-plenty  to  hear  what  your  errant  is 
in  this  'ere  house,"  she  told  him  incisively.  "I've 
heerd  you're  gittin'  to  be  a  terrible  smart,  pushin' 
business  man,  George ;  but  I  guess  we'll  try  an'  make 
out  'ithout  any  paintin'  an'  paperin'  this  spring." 
Abby  Whiton  smiled  grimly  at  the  discomfited  expres- 
sion in  the  young  fellow's  gray  eyes. 

"  Not  this  spring,"  she  repeated  decidedly.  "  W'y, 
I  wouldn't  go  through  the  mess  of  it  ef  you  was  to 
pay  me !  I  know  what  it  is  to  hev  paint-pails  in  ev'r y 
corner  an'  scraps  of  paper  tracked  all  over  the  place. 
So  you  might's  well " 


80     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Oh,  good-morning,  Mr.  Blossom,"  called  a  clear 
little  voice  from  overhead.  "  I  thought  I  heard  you 
speak.  Won't  you  walk  right  in;  Abby  will  take 
your  coat  and  umbrella.  I'll  be  down  at  once." 

"Fer  the  lan's  sake!"  ejaculated  Abby  Whiton, 
with  a  scandalised  sniff.  "  Ef  she  ain't  opened  her 
window  an'  stuck  her  head  right  out  in  the  rain! 
She'll  git  her  death;  that's  what  she'U  git," 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not,"  opined  Mr.  Blossom  cheerfully. 
"  She  had  on  a  shawl,  you  know."  He  stepped  into 
the  hall  with  a  confident  and  masterful  air,  before 
which  Abby  Whiton  involuntarily  retreated  kitchen- 
ward. 

"  Here,  you  c'n  give  me  yer  umbereel,  an'  that  wet 
coat  o'  yourn,"  she  remarked  acidly.  "  I'll  hang  'em 
m  the  wood-shed  to  drip  a  spell.  I  guess  I'll  hev  to 
step  upstairs  an'  see  what  Miss  Cynthy's  up  to  now." 

As  to  the  exact  nature  of  the  interview  which  took 
place  between  mistress  and  maid  above  stairs  George 
Blossom  could  only  guess,  as  he  waited  for  what 
seemed  an  interminable  length  of  time  in  the  sepul- 
chral hall.  He  gave  vent  to  a  low,  apprehensive 
whistle,  as  an  occasional  excited  accent  reached  his 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     81 

attentive  ears.  "  Jiminy !  I  hope  she's  game,"  he 
murmured. 

Two  successive  slams  of  two  distant  doors  appeared 
to  terminate  the  engagement,  and  presently  Miss 
Cynthia  came  down  the  stairs.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  blue  eyes  shone  with  the  light  of  hard- 
won  victory;  she  looked  young,  almost  girlish  in  her 
slim  black  dress.  George  Blossom  sprang  to  his 
feet  with  a  little  exclamation  of  inquiring  sympathy. 

"No,  I'm  not  sick,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  him  de- 
cidedly. "But  I  was  so  tired  I  overslept — for  the 
first  time  in  years.  I'm  not  used  to  being  out  of 
doors,  you  know.  When  I  awoke  I  found  Abby  had 
brought  my  breakfast  upstairs.  Now  we'll  look  at 
the  papers ;  for  I'd  like  you  to  begin  to-morrow." 

"  I  suppose  you'll  make  a  thorough,  complete  j  ob 
of  it,"  observed  George  Blossom,  glancing  critically 
about  the  dingy  walls  of  the  room  they  entered. 
"There'll  be  some  plastering  to  be  done  where  the 
cracks  are  bad,  and  it  '11  make  considerable  trouble, 
first  and  last.  The  carpets  '11  have  to  be  taken  up 
and  the  furniture  moved." 

"I'm  ready  for  anything,"  declared  Miss  Cynthia, 


82     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

the  flush  returning  to  her  cheeks  and  the  sparkle  to 
her  eyes.  "I'll  hire  a  woman,  and  a  man,  too,  if 
necessary.  Abby  Whiton's  going  to  leave." 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blossom.  Then  he 
laughed  outright.  "  I  got  her  that  time,"  he  exulted 
boyishly. 

"  She's  going  right  off — to-day,"  went  on  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  a  dubious  little  quaver  in  her  defiant 
voice.  "  I — I  shall  be  quite  alone  in  the  house.  I 
— I  don't  know  whether " 

"I  can  get  you  a  girl,"  said  George  Blossom  con- 
fidently. "Mother5!!  be  sure  to  know  of  somebody. 
I'll  ask  her.  We'll  have  a  girl  here  by  night ;  see  if 
we  don't." 

Then  the  sample-books  were  spread  out  in  all  the 
bewildering  array  of  their  dazzling  possibilities. 
Miss  Cynthia  strove  vainly  to  picture  to  herself  a 
green  parlour  and  a  yellow  hall  in  striking  juxta- 
position ;  a  blue  dining  room  coupled  crudely  with 
a  pink  sitting  room;  bedrooms  festooned  with  mam- 
moth pink  roses  climbing  over  impossible  lattice- 
work; papered  ceilings  in  vast  designs  of  gilded 
scrolls  and  arabesques;  mouldings  and  borders  in 


/The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     83 

endless  variety.  She  became  gradually  pale  and  de- 
pressed ;  and  all  the  while  the  youthful  and  inexperi- 
enced George  discoursed  volubly  of  the  style  and 
elegance  of  his  papers,  and  the  astonishing  changes 
which  said  papers  would  produce  when  applied  to 
the  walls  of  the  old  Breyfogle  house. 

"I — I  don't  know,"  murmured  Miss  Cynthia 
faintly.  "I'm  afraid  I'd  feel  strange  with  things 
so — so  different.  These  roses,  now,  and  this  scroll- 
work. Someway  I  feel  all  mixed  up,  and  my 
head " 

Mr.  Blossom  stared  at  her  in  vague  alarm.  "  Say ! " 
he  blurted  out,  "I  oughtn't  to  have  showed  you  all 
these  books  at  once.  Mother  says  they're  enough  to 
turn  the  brain  of  a  saint.  She  couldn't  pick  out  a 
paper  for  our  parlour  to  save  her  life.  I  had  to  do 
it  myself,  and  now  she  wishes  it  was  different." 

Miss  Cynthia  sighed  apprehensively.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  listening  furtively  to  the  distant  sounds 
of  strong,  decided  footfalls  which  passed  to  and  fro 
with  dread  regularity.  "  It's  Abby,"  she  explained, 
in  a  small,  weak  voice.  "  I  suppose — she's  packing 
her  things," 


84     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  was  struggling  bravely  with  a  de- 
pressing belief  that  the  foundations  of  her  little 
world  were  about  to  be  terribly  shaken,  if  not  alto- 
gether removed.  She  realised  abjectly  that  she  had 
brought  this  unlocked  for  cataclysm  upon  herself; 
that  it  was  a  direct  result  of  her  own  rash  acts.  For 
the  moment  she  longed  to  dismiss  George  Blossom 
with  his  terrible  sample-books.  She  could  then 
humbly  capitulate  before  Abby  Whiton's  entrench- 
ments and  everything  would  go  on  as  before — till — 
till " 

"  Of  course  I  don't  want  Abby  to  stay  after  all  she 
said,"  she  syllabled  faintly.  "  But " 

At  this  crucial  moment  Mr.  Blossom  deposited  his 
sample-books  upon  the  floor  with  a  decided  thud. 
"  It's  clearing  off,"  he  said  abruptly ;  "  the  sun's  out 
now.  If  you'll  let  me  I'm  going  to  bring  the  phae- 
ton around  and  take  you  over  to  mother's  to  dinner ; 
then  we'll  hunt  a  girl  this  afternoon.  What  do  you 
say?  I  won't  be  ten  minutes." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  I  could,"  faltered  Miss  Cynthia. 
"Your  mother  wouldn't  be  expecting  me,  and 

"  She  asked  me  to  bring    you,"    declared    George 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     85 

Blossom  mendaciously.  "  She  said  she  hadn't  seen 
you  for  years  to  speak  to.  She  was  so  surprised 
and  pleased  when  I  told  her  you'd  given  me  such  a 
splendid  job.  I  told  her  about  our  ride  yesterday, 
and  she  said  she  really  wished  she  could  have  a  good 
talk  with  you." 

The  last  part  of  this  statement  was  strictly  true, 
and  the  young  man's  tone  was  so  hearty  and  con- 
vincing, his  gray  eyes  so  kind  and  reassuring  that 
Miss  Cynthia,  her  little  courage  quite  exhausted, 
looked  at  him  gratefully.  "  I'll  go,"  she  said. 
Then  her  face  fell.  "I  shall  have  to  stay  and  see 
Abby  off,"  she  faltered.  "I  must  settle  with  her, 
and " 

"Leave  her  money  on  the  table  and  a  note  telling 
her  to  put  the  key  under  the  door-mat,"  promptly 
advised  the  sapient  George.  "  I  guess  there  aren't 
any  fond  last  words  coming  to  her,  if  she  talked  to 
you  as  I  expect  she  did." 

And  this  hard-hearted  suggestion  Miss  Cynthia 
weakly  followed  to  the  letter. 

Half  an  hour  later  Abby  Whiton,  reconnoitring 
the  premises  from  an  upper  window,  was  thunder- 


86     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

struck  to  behold  her  mistress  in  the  full  panoply  of 
her  best  gown,  being  assisted  by  George  Blossom 
into  his  new  phaeton.  This  was  the  last  drop  in  the 
overflowing  cup  of  her  indignities.  "  Fer  the  Tan's 
sake!"  she  cried.  "Ef  she  ain't  gone  silly  daft 
over  that  boy!  It's  all  clear  to  me  now.  Well,  I'd 
a  sight  druther  have  laid  her  out  than  to  see  her 
makin'  a  fool  o'  herself." 

Functions  of  a  mortuary  nature  had  always  proved 
more  congenial  to  the  somewhat  gloomy  tastes  of 
Miss  Whiton  than  anything  in  the  way  of  love  and 
matrimony.  She  was  accustomed  to  look  down 
upon  all  "  men-folks  "  from  a  Matterhorn-like  peak 
of  maiden  scorn;  but  for  "young  fellers,"  such  as 
George  Blossom,  she  felt  an  unqualified  con- 
tempt. 

"  W'y,  he  ain't  hardly  out  o'  short  pants ! "  she  told 
herself  fiercely,  as  she  hurried  down  to  the  lower  re- 
gions for  further  investigations.  "More'n  likely 
she  hadn't  no  idee  I  meant  a  word  I  said  'bout  goin' ; 
but  she'll  find  she's  mistook.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  be 
tromped  on  by  nobody." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Miss  Whiton  had  as  yet  made 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     87 

no  move  toward  actual  preparations  for  leaving, 
beyond  ostentatiously  emptying  her  wardrobe. 
"M'  closet's  got  to  be  cleaned  out,  anyhow,"  she 
had  reflected;  "I  might's  well  do  it  to-day  as  any 
other  day." 

She  had  decided  further  that  she  would  allow  Miss 
Cynthia  to  have  the  house  painted  on  the  outside. 
"  'Tain't  a-goin'  to  hurt  me  any,  an'  I  guess  the's 
spots  along  the  gutters  'at  needs  it,"  she  admitted. 
"  I  reelly  hadn't  noticed.  As  for  the  paperin', 
ef  she's  s'  awful  set  on  makin'  a  change  I  do' 
know  as  I  care  if  the  parlour  an'  settin*  room's 
done." 

This  indulgent  and  amicable  frame  of  mind  was 
suddenly  changed  to  wrath  and  bitterness  of  spirit 
by  the  discovery  of  the  letter  with  its  valuable  en- 
closure, which  Miss  Cynthia  had  deposited  in  a  con- 
spicuous place  upon  the  kitchen  table. 

"  My  wages,  an'  fifty  dollars  extry  '  f er  long  an' 
faithful  services ' ! "  snorted  Abby.  "  Well,  I  want- 
ta-know!  I  c'n  leave  the  key  under  the  door-mat, 
kin  I?  Well !" 

Her  grim  face  paled  as  the  inexorable  nature  of 


88     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

the  communication  forced  itself  upon  her  atten- 
tion. "  W'y — W'y ! — She  reelly  wants  I  should  go 
— an'  I  a-livin'  here  in  this  house  sence  she  was  a 
baby!  I  remember  it  's  'o  it  was  yiste'd'y.  I  was 
livin'  to  home  when  Mis'  Day  come  after  me. 
'We've  got  a  little  girl  three  years  old,'  she  says: 
'  but  she's  a  good,  obedient  child,'  she  says.  An' 
she  cert'nly  was,  poor  little  thing!  I  never  did  care 
much  fer  childern,  but  she  was  sech  a  white-faced, 
scared-lookin'  little  mite,  an'  her  ma  was  always  so 
up-an'-down  with  her,  let  alone  her  pa  an'  Gran'ma 
an'  Gran'pa  Breyfogle.  All  of  'em  took  a  han'  at 
fetchin'  her  up,  off  an'  on.  None  of  'em  b'lieved  in 
sparin'  the  rod,  neither.  My!  how  she  us't'  holler 
some  days!  Then  agin,  she'd  creep  'round  like  a 
little  lamb,  's  quiet  an'  good  's  could  be.  They  kep' 
her  dressed  jes'  so  clean  an'  neat,  an'  she  wa'n't 
never  'lowed  to  muss  her  clo'es  or  to  play  out  over- 
much. They  kep'  her  busy  a-doin'  her  stents  an'  her 
cat'chism.  She  cert'nly  was  a  good  child.  An'  to 
think  of  her  a-breakm*  out  now — after  all  these 
years ! " 
Abby  Whiton  scorned  the  display  of  sentiment 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     89 

of  any  sort,  but  alone  in  the  familiar  kitchen,  pain- 
ful tears  crowded  her  dry  old  eyes  and  coursed  salt 
and  bitter  down  her  lean  cheeks,  as  she  again  perused 
Miss  Cynthia's  brief  and  decisive  communication. 
Could  she  have  known  it,  there  were  other  drops  scarce 
dry  among  the  few  words  of  dismissal  and  farewell. 
Thirty  years  of  life  together  in  any  relationship  knits 
bonds  that  are  bound  to  hurt  when  they  are  broken. 

"  Mebbe  I  was  kind  of  foolish  to  undertake  to  cross 
her  so,"  acknowledged  poor  Abby.  "  Come  to  think 
of  it,  she's  reelly  the  boss  here,  an'  her  Gran'pa 
Breyf ogle's  ways  are  a-growin'  on  her,  I  guess. 
Course  she  can't  help  that!  But  it  cert'nly  is  queer 
how  it  come  on  her  all  of  a  sudden.  W'y,  only  last 
week  she  says  to  me,  'Abby,'  she  says,  'don't  you 
think  we'd  better  invite  the  minister  an'  his  wife  to 
tea  pretty  soon?'  'Land,  no!'  I  says,  'not  this 
spring.  We've  had  'em  twict  a'ready  sence  Mis' 
Buckthorn  had  'em  to  her  house.  The'  ain't  no  sense 
in  bein'  too  lavish,'  I  says.  'It  costs  money  ev'ry 
time  we  hev  comp'ny,'  I  says.  An'  she  give  right  in 
without  a  word,  same  as  she  always  done. 

"My!  ef  I  ain't  saved  an'  scrimped  fer  her!  I'll 


90     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

bet  I  ain't  wasted  a  bit  of  victuals  the  size  o'  my 
thumb  nail  sence  her  ma  died.  I've  jest  took  the  hull 
r'sponsibility  right  onto  my  shoulders,  an'  I  hain't 
shirked  m'  duty  neither.  I  really  couldn't  ha'  done 
more  fer  her  ef  I'd  'a  be'n  a  blood  relation  o'  hern, 

an'  now Well,  I'll  hev  to  go,  that's  all  the'  is 

'bout  it.  But  what  in  under  the  sun  she'll  do 
without  me  is  more  'n  I  c'n  tell.  More  'n  likely  she'll 
git  in  some  slack  young  girl  'at  '11  throw  her  money 
out  the  back  door  faster  'an  she  c'n  bring  it  in  at  the 
front.  I  know  'em,  with  their  good-fer-nothin', 
shif 'less  ways !  Well,  I'm  a-goin' ;  I  can't  help  what 
happens  to  her  now." 

In  pursuance  of  this  resolution  Miss  Whiton  pro- 
duced a  long-cherished  stump  of  lead  pencil  from  its 
chosen  niche  atop  the  kitchen  clock,  and  painfully 
scrawled  a  few  words  on  the  back  of  the  paper  upon 
which  the  farewell  words  of  her  mistress  were 
inscribed. 

"  Miss  Cynthy :  [she  wrote]  I  ain't  in  the  habit 
of  takin'  no  money  I  don't  earn.  I  don't  want  no  fifty 
dollars  extry  fer  doin'  right.  You  can  spend  it  on 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     91 

•wall-paper,  if  you  want  to.  But  if  I  was  you  I 
should  lay  it  up  for  a  rainy  day  that  ain't  fur  off. 
You  won't  git  anybody  in  a  hurry  that  will  do 
fer  you  what  I  done.  Your  resp'fully,  Abby 
Whiton." 

This  done,  she  sealed  up  the  unshed  balance  of  her 
tears  with  two  or  three  vigorous  sniffs  of  self-right- 
eous approval,  packed  her  belongings  with  a  long- 
armed  energy  approaching  fierceness,  donned  her 
best  black  alpaca  and  her  old-fashioned  black  hat 
trimmed  with  purple  asters,  the  gift  of  Grandmother 
Breyfogle. 

The  kitchen  was  painfully  clean  and  silent,  as  she 
stood  and  looked  about  it  for  the  last  time.  The 
loud-voiced  clock  which  had  ticked  a  faithful  accom- 
paniment to  her  many  labours  during  thirty  years 
sounded  solemnly  in  her  ears,  as  it  had  done  on  the 
days  when  some  member  of  the  family  had  lain  dying 
above  stairs. 

"  Oh  my!  "  wailed  Abby  Whiton,  suddenly  throwing 
up  her  hands.  "  Seems  's  'o  I  couldn't  stan'  it 
nohow !  " 


92     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

She  whirled  blindly  about  and  went  out  of  the  door, 
turned  the  clumsy  old  key  in  its  worn  lock,  drew  it  out 
and  thrust  it  under  the  mat.  Then  she  walked 
steadily  down  the  path  and  out  into  the  street,  her 
head  high,  her  eyes  fixed  straight  before  her. 


VII 

IF  Miss  Cynthia  had  cherished  any  unpleasant  doubts 
as  to  the  warmth  of  her  reception  at  the  hands  of 
George  Blossom's  mother,  these  doubts  were  immedi- 
ately put  to  rest  at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Blossom  herself, 
rosy,  stout,  and  smiling,  her  voluminous  purple  calico 
skirts  and  spotless  apron  flying  wide  on  the  April 
wind  as  she  hurried  down  the  path  to  meet  her 
guest. 

"  Well,  now  I  call  this  reel  kind  and  neighbourly ! " 
she  cried,  enthusiastically  kissing  Miss  Cynthia's  thin 
cheek.  "I'm  kep'  in  so  constant  with  the  milk  an' 
all  I  don't  get  out  much,  but  I  do  enjoy  to  see  folks. 
Our  George,  he's  been  tellin'  me  'bout  the  job  you've 
given  him  at  your  house,  and  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  how  glad  I  am.  He  's  so  ambitious,  our  George 
is.  I  don't  know  as  I  c'n  make  out  just  what  he  doos 
want  to  do;  I  sh'd  think  he'd  be  pretty  well  satisfied 
to  be  gettin'  along  as  well  as  he  is,  with  a  good  trade 

93 


94     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

an'  all.  But  I  suspicion  there's  a  girl  at  the 
root  of  the  matter." 

The  good  woman  winked  and  nodded  jovially  at  Miss 
Cynthia,  who  found  herself  in  quite  a  pleasant  flutter 
of  anticipation.  She  had  never  been  allowed  to  visit 
or  to  have  company  in  her  younger  days,  and  of  late 
years  the  feeble  stirrings  of  her  social  ambitions  had 
been  promptly  suppressed  by  the  frugal  Abby 
Whiton.  She  experienced  an  entirely  new  and  de- 
lightful sensation  as  she  found  herself  ensconced  in 
Mrs.  Blossom's  comfortable,  sunshiny  sitting  room. 
There  were  scarlet  geraniums  blooming  in  the  clear 
windows,  and  a  yellow  canary  singing  riotously  in  a 
gilt  cage.  There  were  books  and  magazines,  too, 
with  gay  covers,  and  a  deep  chair  with  cushions. 

"Our  George  is  a  great  hand  for  reading,"  Mrs. 
Blossom  explained,  with  smiling  pride.  "An'  he  's 
always  gettin'  me  something  new  an'  pretty.  He 
bought  me  the  canary  and  this  chair  for  my  birthday. 
I  never  see  anybody  like  that  boy  for  thinkin'  up 
things  to  do  for  other  folks.  I  guess  he'll  make 
somebody  a  pretty  good  husband,  some  of  these 
days." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     95 

"  Is  it  Rosalie  Scott  ? "  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  with 
simplicity. 

Mrs.  Blossom  laughed  exuberantly. 

"Has  George  been  talkin'  to  3rou  'bout  her, 
a'ready?"  she  inquired.  "Well,  I  declare,  he  doos 
beat  all !  I  tell  him  he  ought  n't  to  wear  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve  the  way  he  doos,  but  he's  just  like  me;  I 
never  could  keep  in  'bout  anything  I  reelly  cared 
about.  Rosalie  's  a  lovely  girl. — My !  I  guess  she  is! 
If  our  George  can  get  her — But  I  don't  know,  she  's 
be'n  away  to  school,  an'  I  guess  her  pa  an'  ma  think 
our  George  ain't  up  to  her  level.  We  think  he's  up 
to  most  anybody's  level,  as  far  as  smartness  an'  good- 
ness goes.  Of  course,  we  ain't  rich,  an'  we  ain't  be'n 
able  to  do  for  George  the  way  we'd  like  to,  but  we 
think  there  ain't  a  nicer  boy  anywhere  than  our 
George."  Her  motherly  eyes  demanded  instant  cor- 
roboration  from  Miss  Cynthia. 

"He  was  certainly  very  kind  to  me  yesterday," 
Miss  Cynthia  said  sincerely.  "  I'm  glad  I  met  him 
up  there  on  the  hill.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  of " 

"No,  I  don't  s'pose  you  would,  reelly,"  chimed  in 


96     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Mrs.  Blossom  apologetically.  "  Our  George  is  so  full 
of  idees,  an'  he's  real  pushin',  too,  in  his  business. 
It  '11  be  quite  a  tear-up  at  your  house  to  do  all  you're 
talking  of.  An'  Abby  Whiton  's  gone!  I  sh'd 
think  you'd  reelly  dread  to  make  a  change.  She 
must  have  been  pretty  near  like  one  of  the  family, 
after  all  these  years." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  troubled  little 
smile,  "that  was  just  it.  She  was  so  much  like  one 
of  the  family  that  she — I — I  thought  I  should  like 
to  have  things — different — for  a  year,  maybe." 

"I  sh'd  think  you  would  enjoy  a  change  on  some 
accounts,  most  everybody  doos,"  agreed  Mrs.  Blossom 
cautiously.  She  looked  hard  at  her  visitor,  her 
honest  brown  eyes  filled  with  a  frank  surprise  and 
curiosity.  "  I  used  to  know  your  mother  some,  when 
we  were  both  girls,"  she  went  on  with  a  reminiscent 
smile.  "  She  always  lived  at  home  after  she  was 
married,  and  you  were  her  only  child.  Her  folks 
couldn't  bear  to  let  her  out  of  their  sight,  I  remember, 
an'  they  was  just  the  same  with  you,  I've  heard 
tell." 

"  I  always  stayed  at  home  a  good  deal,"  admitted 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     97 

Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  air  of  proud  reserve.  "There 
didn't  seem  to  be  any  call  to  go  out  much.  Then,  of 
course,  there  was  sickness,  so " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  sighed  Mrs.  Blossom ;  "  most 
of  us  is  kep'  in  by  one  thing  or  another.  But  now 
the'  ain't  anything  to  hender  you,  I  sh'd  say.  An'  I 
guess  you'll  begin  to  have  a  good  time,  once  you  get 
your  house  all  fixed  up."  She  nodded  and  smiled 
encouragingly.  "You  've  got  such  nice  big  rooms 
at  your  house  you  c'n  entertain  company  reel  nice, 
an'  have  folks  to  stay  with  you,  too.  It  ain't  as  if 
you  was  old.  Why  you  can't  be  more'n " 

Miss  Cynthia  blushed  resentfully,  then  she  slowly 
paled.  "I'm  thirty-three,"  she  said  in  a  low,  deter- 
mined voice,  "  I  don't  mean  to  wait  to  begin  my  good 
times.  I've  waited  too  long,  now." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  you  're  reel  sensible,"  observed 
Mrs.  Blossom  wonderingly.  "Most  of  us  keeps 
a-jog-trottin'  right  along,  without  seem'  anything 
ahead  of  us  except  our  work.  I  know  I  do." 

"  What  do  you  think  is  the  best  way  to  give  things 
away?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia  suddenly.  "My  house 
is  so  full  of  all  sorts  of  furniture  and  clothes  and 


98     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

fancy-work  and — and  tilings,  I  want  to  give  them 
away." 

Her  hostess  looked  hopelessly  mystified.  "Our 

George  was  saying "  she  began.  Then  she 

laughed  comfortably.  "  Well,  I  declare,  if  that  ain't 
a  new  idee!  Most  of  us  is  busy  the  endurin'  while 
tryin'  to  hold  on  to  our  old  things.  But  perhaps  on 
account  of  the  paintin'  an'  paperin'  you  was  thinkin' 

of  refurnishin'.  You  might  have  an  auction ;  or " 

The  good  woman's  face  lighted  with  the  fire  of  a  new 
idea.  "Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  rummage  sale?  I 
was  readin'  'bout  one  in  the  Ladies'  Household 
Treasury  the  other  day." 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  want  to  sell 
my  things,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  give  them  away.  It 
will  be  different." 

"  I  sh'd  say  so ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Blossom.  After  a 
tense  silence  she  laughed  again,  in  the  rich,  mellow 
way  which  seemed  to  be  a  habit  of  hers.  "  You  might 
have  a  rummage  give-away,"  she  suggested.  "Just 
set  out  everything  you  don't  want  and  let  folks  come 
and  take  their  pick.  You'd  get  rid  of  your  things 
all  right." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     99 

"I  don't  see  why  that  wouldn't  be  a  good  idea," 
Miss  Cynthia  said  thoughtfully.  "But  how  would 
people  know  I  was  going  to — to — rummage?  " 

"  Why,  I  s'pose  it  might  be  give  out  in  church, 
it's  a  kind  of  charity,  seems  to  me,  though  I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing.  It  'ud  get 
around  fast  enough,  anyway,  if  you  was  to  speak  of 
it.  The'  's  plenty  of  folks  'at  'ud  be  glad  to  see  what 
you  set  out,  even  if  you  was  n't  goin'  to  give  'em  a 
stick  of  it.  Why  don't  you  ask  the  minister?  " 

"  I  don't  see,"  Miss  Cynthia  observed  mildly,  "  why 
I  should  ask  the  minister.  It  has  n't  anything  to  do 
with  charity  or — or  religion.  I'm  tired  of  my  things, 
and  I'm  tired  of  being  stingy,  that  's  all." 

Mrs.  Blossom  stared  helplessly  at  her  guest.  "  The' 
's  all  sorts  of  tired  feelin's  comes  onto  folks  in  the 
spring,"  she  said  at  last,  "  but  I  guess  this  is  the  first 
time  I  ever  heard  tell  of  that  special  kind.  But  here 
comes  George.  I'll  just  step  out  into  the  kitchen  and 
look  after  the  dinner  while  you  an'  him  visit  a  spell. 
Don't  you  let  him  show  you  a  single  one  of  those 
wall-papers  of  liisn,  or  you  won't  be  able  to  eat  a 
bite." 


100     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  in  the  least  know  why,  but  she 
felt  better  and  brighter  and  younger  and  more  loving 
than  she  had  felt  in  years,  when  she  arose  from  Mrs. 
Blossom's  cheerful  dinner-table. 

"  You  want  to  be  sure  an'  get  a  girl  'at  knows  how 
to  cook  reel  well,"  said  that  good  woman  beamingly, 
as  she  observed  the  pleasant  glow  in  her  guest's  wan 
face. 

She  cherished  a  private  little  gospel  of  her  own,  did 
Mrs.  Blossom,  and  it  had  a  vast  deal  in  it  about  good 
cooking.  She  was  vaguely  aware  that  man  does  not 
live  by  bread  alone;  but  a  certain  fine,  motherly 
instinct  assured  her  that  the  quality  of  the  bread 
terrestrial  determines  to  an  astonishing  degree  one's 
appetite  for  the  bread  celestial.  It  probably  would 
never  have  occurred  to  Mrs.  Blossom  that  Cyn- 
thia Day  was  sick  and  weak  and  old  before  her  time, 
and  gloomy  and  depressed  and  stingy  and  timid  and 
inhospitable,  just  because  of  the  quality  of  the  meals 
she  had  hitherto  partaken  of  in  the  musty  seclusion  of 
the  Breyfogle  dining  room.  But  she  held  certain 
shrewd,  well-founded  suspicions  regarding  the  meth- 
ods of  Abby  Whiton. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     101 

"  Somebody  that  can  cook  reel  good,  wholesome, 
relishin'  victuals,"  she  repeated,  with  her  rich, 
gurgling  laugh.  "Now,  there  's  Nellie  Ryan.  I 
taught  her  to  cook,  myself — times  when  I  had  to  get 
in  help  from  outside.  She  's  slack  about  her  kitchen, 
I'll  admit,  an'  I  never  could  teach  her  to  save  the 
pieces ;  but  she  c'n  turn  out  as  tasty  a  meal  as  you'd 
want  to  set  down  to ;  an'  she's  willin'  as  willin'  c'n  be. 
She's  pretty,  too;  an'  for  my  part,  I  like  to  see  a 
rosy,  good-natured  face  in  my  kitchen." 

"I  shan't  mind  if  she's  slack,"  Miss  Cynthia  said 
eagerly.  "  I  think  I'd  like  it.  I've  never  seen  any- 
body slack,  or — or  pretty  in  our  kitchen." 

Nellie  Ryan  was  leaning  upon  the  picket  gate 
talking  with  a  smart-looking  young  workman  in  over- 
alls when  George  Blossom  reined  in  his  big  brown 
horse  before  her  mother's  cottage.  She  nodded  shyly, 
her  pretty  Irish  face  dimpling  and  flushing  coquet- 
tishly.  The  young  fellow  in  overalls  wheeled  about 
with  a  sheepish  grin.  "  Hello,  George ! "  he  growled, 
"  that  you?  " 

"Hello,    Bill,"    responded    Mr.    Blossom    amiably. 


102     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I've  brought  Miss  Day  to  see  Nellie  on  a  little  busi- 
ness." 

Thus  introduced,  Miss  Cynthia  somewhat  breath- 
lessly unfolded  her  errand.  "  I  do  hope  you'll  come," 
she  finished,  "  I'm  all  alone,  and  I — I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

The  girl's  eyes  followed  her  late  visitor  as  he  tramped 
away  down  the  street.  "  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  stay 
with  you  very  long,"  she  said,  blushing.  "  I  could 
come  for  the  summer,  perhaps." 

"If  you'll  stay  with  me  for  a  year,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia,  looking  wistfully  down  into  the  pretty,  rosy 
face,  "  I'll  give  you  four  dollars  a  week.  I  want 
somebody  who  will  stay  for — a  year." 

The  girl  opened  her  blue  eyes  very  wide;  the  sum 
mentioned  was  an  unheard  of  sum  to  pay  for  house- 
work in  the  village  of  Innisfield.  "I  should  like  to 
earn  all  that  money,  ma'am,"  she  said,  showing  her 
white  teeth  in  a  pleased  smile ;  "  an'  I'll  do  it  if — 
if—  She  cast  a  shy,  laughing  glance  at  George 
Blossom.  "I  was  thinkin'  of  being  married  in  the 
fall,  ma'am,  and  I  should  hate  to — to  ask  him  to  wait ; 
but  maybe " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     103 

"  Don't  do  it,"  Miss  Cynthia  said  quickly.  "  Don't 
ask  him  to  wait.  No — no,  you  mustn't  wait !  Come 
and  stay  with  me  for  the  summer.  Perhaps  it  won't 

be  a — a  year.    Perhaps "    She  controlled  herself 

with  a  visible  effort.     "  I  shall  pay  you  just  the  same 
for  the  time  you  do  stay." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Nellie  Ryan  reigned  in 
Abby  Whiton's  stead,  and  things  were  "  different "  in 
the  Breyfogle  kitchen,  and  also  in  the  Breyfogle 
dining  room.  George  Blossom  began  to  scrape  and 
paint  the  outside  of  the  Breyfogle  house,  and  the 
young  man  known  as  Bill  assisted  him  in  the  process. 
Of  a  noon  Bill  ate  his  lunch  with  Nellie  at  the  kitchen 
table  Abby  Whiton  had  scoured  to  a  stern  and  uncom- 
promising whiteness. 

Miss  Cynthia  could  hear  their  careless  young  laugh- 
ter as  she  ate  her  own  solitary  dinner.  This  meal  was 
now  of  such  a  surprisingly  satisfying  and  abundant 
nature  that  she  was  almost  afraid  to  meet  the 
crayoned  eyes  of  the  late  Mrs.  Day,  who  still  presided 
in  cold  black  and  white  from  above  the  mantelpiece. 
She  had  already  entertained  the  minister  and  his  wife 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

at  tea,  and  George  Blossom  and  his  mother  at  dinner, 
and  the  Puffer  twins  had  formed  the  cheerful  habit 
of  dropping  in  to  breakfast  whenever  the  appetite  for 
jam  and  toast  overcame  them,  which  was  often. 

All  this  had  taken  place,  and  the  evening  and  the 
morning  were  the  sixth  day. 

On  the  seventh  day  Miss  Cynthia  went  to  church. 


vin 

CYNTHIA  DAY  had  been  accustomed  to  attend  the 
regular  morning  service  of  the  Innisfield  Presbyterian 
church  since  the  days  when,  after  sitting  for  what 
seemed  a  dreary  age  with  her  young  eyes  hope- 
lessly below  the  horizon  of  the  family  pew  and  her 
small  feet  sticking  out  straight  in  front,  she  had  been 
mercifully  permitted  to  lose  consciousness  upon  her 
mother's  angular  knees. 

The  Breyf  ogle  pew,  with  its  array  of  fly-blown  palm- 
leaf  fans,  its  musty  hymnals  and  its  curious  old- 
fashioned  foot-stools,  prone  to  topple  over  thunder- 
ously in  the  midst  of  "the  long  prayer,"  was  as 
much  of  a  family  heritage  as  the  old  house  on  Maple 
Street,  or  the  family  plot  in  the  bleak  burying- 
ground.  Miss  Cynthia  had  always  cherished  a  belief 
that  the  title  to  a  mansion  in  the  skies  was  inalien- 
ably associated  with  a  rigidly  regular  attendance 
upon  what  she  had  been  taught  to  call  "  divine  serv- 
ice." As  to  just  what  constituted  the  service,  or  in 

105 


106     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

what  particular  part  of  it  inhered  divinity,  Miss 
Cynthia  had  never  ventured  to  inquire. 

On  this  particular  Sunday  morning,  while  the  thin- 
voiced  bell  still  clanged  its  insistent  summons  to  wor- 
ship, Miss  Cynthia  slipped  into  her  accustomed  cor- 
ner, in  her  own  peculiarly  modest  and  shadowy  way. 
She  had  never  attracted  the  attention  of  curious  eyes, 
being  as  much  a  part  of  the  familiar  Sabbath  topog- 
raphy of  the  place  as  the  thick,  black  Bible  on  the 
preacher's  desk,  or  the  shining,  bald  head  of  Deacon 
Scrimger  in  the  fourth  pew  from  the  chancel. 

It  was  a  time-honoured  custom  among  the  adult 
members  of  the  congregation  to  recognise  the  sanctity 
of  the  place  and  occasion  by  briefly  bowing  the  head 
upon  the  further  rim  of  one's  pew.  This  pious  act 
(originating  in  the  early  Puritan  days)  combined  an 
uncompromising  denial  of  the  Papish  practice  of 
kneeling  in  church  with  an  ingeniously  difficult  atti- 
tude of  body  calculated  to  meet  the  stern  demands  of 
the  New  England  conscience.  For  a  person  of  small 
stature,  the  exercise  became  a  painfully  strenuous 
one.  But  no  Breyf ogle  had  ever  been  known  to  omit 
it.  Miss  Cynthia,  therefore,  leaned  aspiringly  for- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     107 

ward,  the  toes  of  her  little  shoes  scarce  touching  the 
floor,  and  grasping  the  cold,  slippery  railing  of  the 
pew  with  one  determined  hand,  with  the  other  applied 
an  equally  cold  and  slippery  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes  in  the  prescribed  manner. 

This  devotional  period  was  quite  frankly  employed 
by  the  younger  and  more  thoughtless  members  of  the 
congregation  as  an  excellent  opportunity  for  inspect- 
ing the  hats  and  bonnets  on  the  bowed  heads  of  the 
worshippers.  Well  over,  certain  whispered  obser- 
vations on  current  topics  of  communal  interest 
might  be  circumspectly  passed  between  contiguous 
pews. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  majestic  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn was  seen  to  exchange  discreet  confidences  with 
Miss  Electa  Pratt  in  the  choir  seats,  and  that  lady's 
prominent  plumes  vibrated  with  poignant  emotion  as 
she  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  ear  of  the  lady  next 
her.  Other  heads  in  various  parts  of  the  house  bowed 
like  weighted  grain  under  a  passing  breeze,  while  a 
fire  of  inquisitive  eyes  was  presently  centred  upon 
the  crown  of  Miss  Cynthia's  black  bonnet,  which  still 
remained  bowed  upon  the  outer  rim  of  the  Breyfogle 


108      The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

pew.  Strange  and  surprising  rumours  concerning 
the  singular  doings  of  Miss  Cynthia  had  been  circu- 
lated from  mouth  to  mouth  during  the  past  week,  and 
the  unusual  worshipfulness  of  her  demeanour  was  felt 
to  be  strongly  corroborative  evidence. 

But  Miss  Cynthia  was  quietly  crying  in  the  black- 
bordered  handkerchief  beneath  the  shelter  of  her 
drooping  black  veil.  The  revolution  in  her  small, 
bleak  world  had  been  so  complete  and  overwhelming 
that  the  sight  of  the  unchanged  Breyfogle  pew,  and 
even  the  ancient  and  musty  smell  of  the  hymn  books, 
— so  directly  associated  with  religion  of  the  Brey- 
fogle Presbyterian  variety  as  to  subtly  represent  the 
odour  of  sanctity  in  Miss  Cynthia's  nostrils — had 
proved  painfully  agitating. 

It  was  almost  as  though  she  had  come  suddenly  face 
to  face  with  her  stern-visaged  Grandfather  Brey- 
fogle, in  the  midst  of  some  escapade  of  acknowledged 
impropriety.  For  the  moment  she  was  quite  drowned 
in  distressing  doubts  and  fears.  She  wished  weakly 
that  all  was  over,  and  that  she  was  safely  hidden  from 
human  view  beneath  the  sheltering  sod  of  the  family 
plot.  She  trembled  to  think  of  her  bold  plans  for  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     109 

coming  week.  They  now  appeared  to  her  as  brazen 
and  improper  to  the  verge  of  sinfulness.  And  all 
these  quiverings  and  cryings  of  a  newly-awakened 
soul  arose  in  a  very  sincere,  if  wordless,  little  prayer 
to  the  God  of  her  fathers. 

The  effort  to  swallow  her  unreasoning  tears,  and  to 
furtively  dab  away  the  evidences  of  them  with  her 
thinly-starched  pocket-handkerchief  occupied  Miss 
Cynthia  through  the  preliminary  prayers  and  hymns 
until  the  pleasantly  secular  reading  of  the  notices  was 
announced. 

This  tiny  oasis  of  human  interest,  set  midway 
between  a  sermon  of  unknown  length  and  dulness  and 
the  various  devotional  exercises  which  immediately 
preceded  it,  always  received  the  closest  attention  of 
the  congregation;  it  being,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  social 
programme  for  the  entire  community.  It  was  then 
that  Miss  Cynthia  raised  her  head  and  fixed  her 
reddened  eyes  upon  the  minister  with  what  strongly 
resembled  a  look  of  actual  defiance. 

"  My  gracious ! "  whispered  the  observant  Miss 
Pratt.  "Do  look  at  her!  She's  been  cryin',  an'  I 
don't  wonder ! " 


110     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

The  evening  service,  conducted  by  the  Y.  P.  S.  C. 
E. ;  the  regular  weekly  church  prayer  meeting ;  the 
second  grand  Combination  Entertainment  in  the 
lecture  course  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. ;  the  annual  offering 
for  the  cause  of  foreign  missions,  and  the  cake  sale 
and  social  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  having  been  duly 
announced  and  commented  upon,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Petti- 
bone  lifted  the  last  thin  slip  of  paper  from  the  sacred 
desk  and  assumed  an  attitude  which  his  congregation 
recognised  as  prefatory  to  remarks  of  a  peculiarly 
pastoral  nature. 

"I  hold  in  my  hand,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Pettibone, 
with  impressive  oratorical  emphasis,  "  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  notices  which  has  ever  been  laid  upon  this 
pulpit.  Perhaps  I  should  add  that  I  have  not  met, 
in  my  experience  as  a  pastor,  with  a  similar  case. 
And  yet,  this  communication  is  a  very  direct  and 
practical  exposition  of  Biblical  truth.  We  are  told 
in  the  Scriptures  that  the  man  who  possesses  two 
cloaks  should  straightway  give  one  of  them  to  the 
man  who  has  none.  How  many  of  us  have  heeded 
this  direct  command  of  the  Master's?  How  many  of 
the  female  members  of  this  congregation  having  two 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     111 

bonnets,  or  two  dresses,  or  two  shawls,  or  two " 

Mr.  Pettibone  paused,  as  he  met  the  anxious  eyes  of 
his  wife  in  one  of  the  front  pews. 

" — Or  two — er— of  any  necessary  article  of  cloth- 
ing," he  concluded  somewhat  lamely,  "  have 
freely  offered  this — er — extra  garment  to  the  woman 
who  had  none?  I  venture  to  say  that  very  few  of 
us  have  even  contemplated  such  an  action.  But  here 
is  one  of  our  own  number  who  wishes  to  freely  give — 
to  give,  mark  you — not  only  clothing,  but  a  number 
of  other  useful  articles  to  those  in  need.  I  will  now 
read  the  notice  as  it  was  handed  to  me : 

" '  Miss  Cynthia  Day  would  like  to  give  away  a  num- 
ber of  articles,  comprising  clothing,  furniture,  car- 
pets and  household  goods  of  all  descriptions,  at  her 
residence  on  Maple  Street,  beginning  at  ten  o'clock 
on  Thursday  morning  of  this  week.  Will  the 
members  of  the  congregation  kindly  spread  this 
notice  among  those  who  are  in  need  of  such 
articles  ?  ' 

The  audible  gasp  of  consternation  and  astonishment 
which  followed  was  promptly  covered  by  the  reading 
of  a  hymn.  When  the  congregation  stood  up  to 


112     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

sing,  Miss  Cynthia  stood  up,  slim  and  straight  in  the 
Breyfogle  pew.  Her  small  face  wore  a  strangely 
aloof  and  impersonal  expression  which  was  variously 
construed  as  pride,  vain-glory,  hypocrisy,  and  even 
a  failing  mind  by  the  charitable  matrons  of  her 
acquaintance. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  Reverend  Silas  Pettibone's 
very  excellent  discourse  did  not  receive  the  attention 
which  it  merited.  The  weak  and  superficial  render- 
ing of  the  closing  hymn,  and  the  final  benediction, 
utilised  for  the  most  part  by  the  congregation  as  a 
period  of  preparation  for  a  hasty  exodus  into  the 
aisles,  prefaced  a  determined  assault  upon  the  Brey- 
fogle pew.  Miss  Cynthia,  pale  and  tremulous,  but 
strongly  resembling  her  intrepid  ancestor,  waited  the 
attack. 

"Well,  well,  well,  Cynthy!"  began  Deacon 
Scrimger,  clicking  his  artificial  teeth  in  an  unpleasant 
smile,  "  you  give  us  quite  a  leetle  s'prise  this  mornin' 
— quite  a  s'prise!  What's  your  idee  in  givin'  away 
your  worldly  goods  in  this  'ere " 

"  Let  me  speak  to  her,"  commanded  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
elbowing  the  gathering  crowd  with  the  determined 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     113 

authority  of  an  ambulance  surgeon  hastily  summoned 
to  the  scene  of  a  fatal  accident. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  this  unheard  of  action,  my 
dear  child?"  she  inquired.  "Have  you  any  concep- 
tion of  the  dangerous  ideas  you  are  settin'  afloat  in 
this  'ere  community?  Suppose  each  an'  every  one 
of  us  should  undertake  to  do  as  you  are  doing,  we 
should  shortly  have  the  tramps  an*  beggars  from  the 
whole  county  at  our  doors.  I  pity  you,  Cynthia, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart;  I  do,  indeed!  You 
should  have  consulted  me  before " 

"You'd  better  b'lieve  I'm  comin'  a-Thursday, 
bright  an'  early,  too!"  twittered  Miss  Electa  Pratt, 
with  a  girlish  giggle.  "  I  think  it's  just  too  excit- 
ing an'  lovely  for  anything!  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for 
worlds!  I  may  come,  mayn't  I?" 

"  I  hope,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  stiffly,  "  that  you  will 
all  come  and  help  me,  so  that  the  things  will  go  to 
the  right  people." 

"  Who  are  the  right  people  ?  "  demanded  an  incisive 
voice  from  the  rear.  A  suppressed  laugh  arose  at 
this  question. 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head.     "  I  don't  know,"  she 


114     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

said.  "  But  I  expect  they'll  come.  I  have  so  many 
things,  you  know;  and — and — I've  never  given  any 
of  them  away.  I  shall  give  them  away  now,  even  if 
the  wrong  people  take  them." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  pressed  close  to  the  little  woman's 
side — they  were  both  little  women.  "I  think  it's 
just  beautiful,"  she  whispered  encouragingly.  "  It 
— it's  like  the  Encircling  Good,  you  know.  That's 
everywhere,  and  we  can  each  take  from  it  just  what 
we  want  most." 

"  But  I'm  not  doing  it  to — to  be  good,  or  religious," 
faltered  Miss  Cynthia.  "It's  only  because  I — I 
want  to " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  squeezed  Miss  Cynthia's  cold  little 
fingers.  "  I  shall  come  and  help,"  she  said,  "  so  will 
Mr.  Pettibone." 

"I  shall  be  there,"  intoned  Mrs.  Buckthorn  majesti- 
cally. "  I  consider  it  my  pers'nal  dooty.  I  have 
never  been  known  to  blench  at  the  call  of  dooty, 
whatever  the  pers'nal  sacrifice  to  self." 

"  I'll  try  to  git  eround,"  quavered  Deacon  Scrimger. 
"  I've  got  a  leetle  idee  of  my  own  'at  I'll  let  ye  know 
when  the  time  comes." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     115 

There  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  success 
of  the  enterprise  considered  from  a  merely  social 
standpoint.  If  Miss  Cynthia  had  desired  to  put  an 
end  to  her  long  loneliness,  she  could  not  have  devised 
a  better  scheme.  In  the  days  that  followed  pretty 
Nellie  Ryan  was  kept  busy  from  morning  till  night 
answering  the  door-bell,  which  was  finally  jerked 
bodily  from  its  ancient  socket  by  an  eager  young 
person  from  a  neighbouring  village  who  had  come  to 
inquire  whether  any  bicycles  were  to  be  given  away  on 
Thursday. 

"  What  /  want  to  know  is,  just  what  do  you  intend 
givin'  away?"  asked  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  whose  sense  of 
duty  had  led  her  to  call  upon  Miss  Cynthia  early  on 
Monday  morning. 

"Why,  nearly  everything,"  replied  Miss  Cynthia 
calmly.  "I  am  going  to  have  these  rooms  papered 
and  painted,  and  it  will  be  ever  so  much  easier  to  give 
the  things  away  than  to  move  them  about  from  place 
to  place." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  buy  everything  new,"  observed 
Mrs.  Buckthorn,  transfixing  Miss  Cynthia  with  her 
spectacled  gaze. 


116     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  bore  up  bravely  under  the  attack.  "  I 
expect  to  use  some  old  furniture  that  has  been  stored 
in  the  attic  for  years,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  tired  of 
seeing  these  things,"  she  added  with  unexpected 
bitterness. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Cynthia  Day,  that  you  are 
goin'  to  give  to  any  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  that  '11 
carry  *em  away  this  furniture  an'  these  carpets  that 
your  sainted  ma  took  care  of  as  if  they  was  made  of 
gold?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  directly.  She  glanced 
about  the  densely  furnished  rooms  with  an  odd  ex- 
pression which  did  not  escape  the  vigilant  eyes  of 
the  matron. 

"  Not  this  stuffed  sofa?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
with  rising  indignation. 

"Yes." 

"An'  these  'ere  black  walnut  chairs  with  gilt 
trimmings?" 

"Yes." 

"And  both  of  those  marble-topped  tables?" 

Miss  Cynthia  inclined  her  head  stiffly. 

"An*  this  han'some  body-brussels  carpet,  with  not 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     117 

a  hole  in  it,  an'  hardly  faded  a  mite,  an'  that  eVgant 
whatnot  with  all  those  china  ornaments  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  straightened  herself  in  her  chair,  with 
a  determined  tightening  of  her  small  mouth.  "If 
I — if  I  was  to  die,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  these 
things  would  have  to  be  sold  at  auction.  I  have  no — 
no  relatives,  who  would  care  for  them.  If  I  wish  to 
give  them  away,  why  should  anyone — why  should  I 
not  do  it?" 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  carefully  inspected  the  small  figure 
of  her  hostess,  as  she  sat  on  one  of  the  stuffed  chairs 
in  the  full  light  of  the  east  window.  "  I  haven't 
seen  you  look  as  'well  as  you  do  now  for  years,  Cyn- 
thia," she  said  meditatively.  "  Seems  to  me  you've 
been  fleshin'  up  quite  a  little  this  spring,  an'  I  never 
saw  you  show  such  a  colour  since  you  was  a  girl. 
But  I  do  d'clare  I  believe  your  mind  is  affected.  Do 
you  have  headaches  much  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  smiled  faintly.  "  I  haven't  had  the 
headache  since  I  began  to  leave  my  windows  open  at 
night,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  sleep  with 
your  windows  open!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Buckthorn 


118     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  ^Cynthia 

increduously.  "  Why,  ain't  you  afraid  of  the  night 
air — are'  burglars?  It  doosn't  seem  quite — nice — 
for  a  female  person  to  admit  the  night  air  into  her 
bedroom.  It's  sure  to  give  you  colds  an'  maybe 
consumption.  Why,  I  remember  a  niece  of  mine  'at 
was  possessed  to  throw  up  her  windows  at  night,  an' 
many  an'  many  a  time  I've  shut  'em  down  after  she'd 
gone  to  sleep.  I  felt  as  'o  it  was  my  pers'nal  dooty. 
An'  do  you  know  that  girl  died  of  consumption  before 
she  was  twenty !  It  was  a  warnin'  to  me!  Then,  if  a 
burglar " 

"I  used  to  think  just  that  way,"  explained  Miss 
Cynthia,  "but  one  night  I  felt  so — so  smothered,  I 
couldn't  seem  to  get  my  breath,  so  I  opened  the  win- 
dows, and,  really,  I  was  surprised,  I  did  sleep  better. 
I  felt  as  though  I  didn't  care  if  I  did  take  cold,"  she 
added  under  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  arose  with  a  deep,  discouraged  sigh 
and  began  a  majestic  tour  of  the  premises.  "Not 
this — I  hope,  Cynthia,"  she  said,  indicating  a  ponder- 
ous gilt-embossed  Bible. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so ;  I  never  read  in  it." 

"  Never  read  in  it ! " 


iThe  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     119 

"I've  a  smaller  one  upstairs,"  amended  Miss  Cyn- 
thia hastily. 

"What  about  this?"  'This'  was  a  large  and 
elaborate  hair-wreath  in  a  deep  glass  case.  "  If  I 
remember  rightly,  your  dear  departed  mother  made 
this  beautiful  wreath." 

"Yes,  she  did,"  admitted  Miss  Cynthia,  staring  at 
the  object  with  a  queer  look  in  her  blue  eyes.  "I 
helped,  too.  I  stayed  in  the  house  all  the  afternoons 
of  a  whole  summer,  when  I  was  seventeen,  straighten- 
ing out  combings.  All  the  family  hair  is  in  it,  and 
they're  all  dead  but  me." 

"  What  a  pr-recious  family  memorial ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  feelingly.  "  Surely  you're  not 
thinking  of  parting  with  that!  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  it  away,"  said  Miss  Cynthia. 
She  did  not  see  fit  to  inform  her  visitor  that  she  had 
already  laid  the  foundations  of  a  sort  of  funeral 
pyre  in  the  back  yard  which  she  believed  would 
materially  assist  her  in  solving  a  number  of  problems 
of  a  similar  nature. 

"  I  never  saw  such  eVgant  fine  tattin'  and  crocheted 
work  as  your  dear  relatives  used  to  do  when  they  was 


120     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

sojournin'  in  this  vale  of  tears,"  Mrs.  Buckthorn  went 
on.  "  Now,  this  here  han'some  set  of  tidies  an'  chair- 
covers,  what  was  you  going  to  do  with  these  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia's  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  a  singular 
light. 

"  I  made  those  things,"  she  said  abruptly.  "  I 
crocheted  them  out  of  number  ninety  spool  cotton 
with  a  fine  steel  hook.  I  worked  a  year  on  them,  and 

all  the  while  I "  She  stopped  short,  and  eyed  her 

visitor,  as  she  fingered  the  hated  objects.  "  Would 
you — would  you  care  to  accept  them?  "  she  asked. 

"My!  I  don't  see  how  you  c'n  bear  to  part 
with  'em!"  murmured  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "I 
shouldn't  like  to  rob " 

"  I  want  to  part  with  them,"  interrupted  Miss  Cyn- 
thia breathlessly.  "  They  always  make  me  think 

of Do  take  them,  Mrs.  Buckthorn;  they  won't 

make  you  think  of  anything." 

"My  dear  child,  they'll  make  me  think  of  you! 
Thank  you,  so  much!  " 

Miss  Cynthia  meekly  endured  the  voluminous  em- 
brace and  moist,  matronly  kiss  which  was  the  direct 
outcome  of  this  transaction.  There  were  other 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     121 

objects  within  view  at  sight  of  which  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn's neighbourly  sympathies  and  mournful  mem- 
ories of  past  days  overflowed  in  a  flood  of  picturesque 
reminiscences. 

"  It  doos  bring  it  all  back  to  me  so!  "  she  sighed. 
"  It  was  right  here,  I  remember,  on  this  nice  black  hair 
rug,  that  the  undertaker — it  was  Mr.  Fish,  in  those 
days ;  poor  man,  he's  dead  an'  gone,  too ! — Well,  he 
set  your  sainted  gran'father's  coffin  right  on  this  here 
rug,  with  a  wreath  on  top  of  it  made  out  of  purple 
an'  white  everlastin's  that  me  an'  Mr.  Buckthorn  sent 
in.  We  always  thought  so  much  of  all  your  folks. 
I  don't  suppose  you  ever  realised  just  what  they  was 
to  us" 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  Miss  Cynthia  admitted.  "  I  never 
supposed  the  neighbours  cared  very  much  about  any 
of  us.  I  don't  see  why  they  should." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  gave  vent  to  a  long  and  windy  sigh. 
She  squeezed  Miss  Cynthia's  little  hand.  "  The 
sacredest  feelin's  of  the  human  heart  ain't  always 
apparent,"  she  said,  "but  the's  occasions,  such  as 
deaths  an'  fun'rals,  that  brings  'em  to  the  surface. 
Of  course,  you'll  keep  this  han'some  hair  rug.  1 


122     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

d'clare,  I  don't  b'lieve  the  moths  has  ever  been  in  it. 
Seems  to  me  I  c'n  smell  camphire  on  it  now." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  looking  very  pale.  "  I  wish  you'd 
take  it  away,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  wild  April  air  as  she 
stood  on  the  doorstep  watching  the  departing  form 
of  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  That  good  lady  had  cordially 
offered  to  "  stay  all  day  an'  help  get  ready  for  Thurs- 
day." But  Miss  Cynthia  had  excused  herself  on  the 
ground  of  a  previous  and  pressing  engagement. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  real  sly,"  she  told  herself, 
with  a  guilty  little  laugh.  "  It  was  only  the  bonfire. 
The  twins  are  coming  to  help;  but  I  couldn't  have 
her.  I'm  glad  she's  taken  away  all  those  things.  I 
hope  I'll  never  see  them  again ! " 


IX 


THE  idea  of  the  bonfire  originated  in  Harriet 
Puffer's  fertile  brain.  "  That's  an  awfully  funny 
kind  of  a  wreath,"  she  remarked,  when  curiously 
examining  the  mortuary  memorial  composed  of  the 
indestructible  remains  of  many  dead  and  gone  Brey- 
f  ogles  and  Days.  "  I  sh'd  think  you'd  rather  have 
one  made  out  of  real  flowers." 

"  I  should,"  sighed  Miss  Cynthia.  "  I  wish  I  knew 
what  to  do  with  this  one.  I  can't  give  it  away,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  put  anything  up  in  the  attic  any 
more." 

"  It's  lots  of  fun  to  burn  things  up,"  observed 
Harriet  thoughtfully.  "We  could  make  a  lovely 
doll's  cupboard  out  the  wood  an'  glass  part — see,  it's 
got  a  regular  little  door.  An'  the  hair  part  would 
sizzle  right  up,  if  you  sh'd  put  it  on  a  bonfire." 

"  So  it  would,"  agreed  Miss  Cynthia.  Her  mind 
reverted  to  the  vast  collection  of  family  documents 
stored  away  in  divers  ancient  receptacles  above  stairs, 

123 


124     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

which  it  had  been  her  mother's  unvarying  custom  to 
unpack,  to  untie,  to  dust,  to  retie  and  pack  again 
with  dire  thoroughness,  as  the  seasons  changed.  She 
herself  had  already  performed  this  rite  on  nine 
successive  occasions.  "  These  family  papers  harbour 
dust  and  dirt,  if  neglected,"  had  been  Grandmother 
Breyf ogle's  dictum.  "  But  they  should  be  preserved 
out  of  respect  to  the  departed." 

"I  shall  burn  them  all,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  firmly. 
"There'll  be  nobody  to  take  care  of  them — next 
spring." 

The  Puffer  twins  had  already  regaled  themselves 
upon  certain  choice  selections  from  a  herd  of  ginger- 
bread animals  constructed  by  the  ingenious  Nellie. 
They  now  j  oyously  accompanied  Miss  Cynthia  to  the 
attic,  entirely  ready  to  convey  any  designated  object 
to  the  back  yard;  the  one  idea  in  their  youthful 
minds  being  to  build  as  large  and  inflammable  a  pile  as 
possible.  It  did  not  strike  them  as  at  all  singular 
that  the  first  article  to  be  consigned  to  the  place  of 
sacrifice  was  a  small,  three-legged  stool. 

"I  used  to  sit  on  that  stool  to  do  my  stents,"  said 
Miss  Cynthia,  regarding  it  soberly. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     125 

"  What  are  stents  ?  "  inquired  Harriet. 

"  Something  you  have  to  do  perfectly  in  a  certain 
time  or  get  punished,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  her.  "  I 
had  to  sew,  and  knit,  and  cut  patches,  and  crochet, 
and  learn  hymns  and  Bible  verses  on  that  stool. 
Nearly  every  day  I  was  whipped  for  failing  in  one  of 
my  stents." 

The  twins  regarded  the  three-legged  stool  with  a 
fearful  interest.  "  If  you'd  been  twins "  sug- 
gested Edwina  hopefully. 

"  If  I  had  been  twins,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  gloomily, 
"  there  would  have  been  two  stools." 

"I  guess  we'd  rather  do  stunts,"  giggled  Harriet. 
"  Stunts  are  more  fun,  like  climbing  awful  high  trees, 
when  you're  scared  of  fallin',  or  hoppin*  on  one  foot 
to  the  grocery  store — that's  an  awful  hard  stunt, 
but  we  c'n  do  it." 

The  stool  of  dire  memories  was  planted  as  the 
foundation  of  the  pyre.  Around  it  gradually  arose 
a  pyramid  of  old  letters,  cancelled  checks,  tax  bills 
and  bundles  of  red-lined  documents  and  leather- 
backed  account  books. 

A    curious    box    containing    divers    sets    of    gold- 


126     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

mounted,  artificial  teeth  roused  the  twins  to  excited 
questionings.  "Are  they  real  teeth?  Whose  teeth 
are  they?  Why  are  teeth  in  this  box?  What  are 
these  teeth  for?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  could  not  fully  explain  the  mystery. 
She  dimly  remembered  hearing  her  grandmother  say 
that  Uncle  Jeremiah  Breyfogle's  false  teeth  might 
come  in  useful  some  day;  she  knew  they  had  cost  a 
sight  of  money.  The  teeth  rattled  realistically  as 
the  twins  dropped  them  into  a  niche  in  the  prospective 
bonfire.  The  box  was  reserved  for  a  doll's  trunk. 

The  pile  grew  fast  after  that ;  Nellie  Ryan  smilingly 
assisted;  so  did  the  helpful  and  ubiquitous  William. 
Hopelessly  maimed  furniture,  strange  shrunken  shoes, 
laced  with  mould  and  cobwebs,  leaking  overshoes  in 
odd  sizes,  curious  headgear  of  every  antiquated 
fashion,  broken  umbrellas,  theological  books  and 
pamphlets,  bundles  of  old  periodicals  yellowed  with 
age,  remnants  of  wall-paper,  bunches  of  odourless 
herbs — passed  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  unac- 
customed light  of  day  like  a  procession  of  dismal  old 
ghosts. 

And  now  Miss  Cynthia  was  delving  with  determined 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     127 

zeal  into  the  row  of  trunks  and  boxes  which  lurked 
darkly  beneath  the  eaves.  Here  were  stores  of 
ancient,  moth-corrupted  muffs  and  collars,  smelling 
evilly  of  camphor  and  tobacco ;  queer  old  cloaks  and 
dresses,  dropping  to  pieces  with  age ;  yellowed  under- 
clothing, breathing  a  lonesome  aroma  of  desolation ; 
rolls  of  pieces,  breadths  of  forgotten  fabrics — she 
heaped  them  all  under  the  open  sky-light.  "  Are  any 
of  these  good  for  anything,  to  anybody  ?  "  she  asked 
hopelessly. 

Nellie  Ryan  shook  her  pretty  head.  "The  linen 
would  drop  to  pieces  if  you  tried  to  bleach  it,  ma'am," 
she  said,  "  and  the  other  things  are  too  queer  and  old- 
fashioned  for  folks  now-a-days." 

"  If  they  had  been  given  away  forty  years  ago 
somebody  might  have  been  glad  of  them,"  mused  Miss 
Cynthia.  "  But  now — take  them  all  down  and  put 
them  on  the  bonfire." 

A  zealous  antiquarian  would  doubtless  have 
shuddered  at  the  vandalisms  committed  by  Miss  Cyn- 
thia during  the  next  hour.  An  actual  lust  for  space 
• — for  emptiness — had  laid  hold  upon  her.  Her 
small,  colourless  face  glowed,  her  blue  eyes  burned 


128     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

with  iconoclastic  fires,  as  she  raked  forth  the  long- 
venerated  relics  of  by-gone  days. 

"Anything  that  is  good  for  anybody  to  use  we'll 
give  away,"  she  said ;  "  the  rest  shall  be  burned. 
I'm  not  going  to  save — anything." 

The  Puffer  twins,  their  curly  red  heads  topped  by 
huge,  flower-decked  bonnets,  gambolled  joyously  in 
the  midst  of  the  parti-coloured  heaps. 

"You  can  have  anything  you  like  for  your  dolls," 
Miss  Cynthia  told  them  recklessly. 

Nellie  Ryan's  bright  eyes  rested  inquiringly  upon 
a  pile  of  gay-coloured  light  silks  and  muslins.  "  What 
am  I  to  do  with  these,  ma'am?  "  she  asked.  "  They're 
too  good  to  burn  up,  and  I'm  afraid  poor  people 
couldn't  use  them.  There's  real  pretty  lace  on  this 
dress."  She  held  up  a  thin,  India  silk  of  a  delicate 
peach-blossom  pink. 

Miss  Cynthia  stared  at  it  thoughtfully.  "How  I 
did  want  to  wear  that  silk — once,"  she  murmured. 
"  I  was  so  tired  of  black ;  but  I  wasn't  allowed  to  have 
it  because  somebody  had  just  died — a  cousin  of 
mother's,  I  think.  It  is  pretty,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  wear  it  now  ?  "  demanded  Harriet 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     129 

Puffer,  who  had  added  a  green  silk  mantilla  and  a 
scarlet  cashmere  scarf  to  her  costume. 

"  Why  don't  7  wear  it  ?  "  echoed  Miss  Cynthia. 
"Why,  all  my  dresses  are  black.  I've  always  worn 
black,  you  know." 

Nellie  Ryan  was  surveying  her  mistress  with  new  in- 
terest. Miss  Day  had  always  appeared  hopelessly 
plain  and  middle-aged  in  her  young  eyes.  Now,  she 
was  forced  to  admit,  that  with  her  abundant  brown 
hair  ruffled  into  tiny  waves  and  her  cheeks  faintly 
flushed,  Miss  Cynthia  was  looking  really  young,  and, 
yes — actually  pretty.  It  was  a  surprising  idea  to 
Nellie.  "I  don't  see,  ma'am,  why  you  should 
always  wear  black,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "Why 
couldn't  you  have  some  of  these  pretty  things  made 
over  and  wear  them?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  smoothed  the  soft  folds  of  the  peach- 
blossom  silk  with  a  tremulous  little  hand.  "  I  should 
like  to  wear  a  pink  dress,"  she  breathed.  "  I've  nearly 
always  been  obliged  to  wear  black,  and  pretty 
soon " 

She  waited  a  little  in  a  breathless  silence,  then  she 
said  faintly,  "  I — suppose  everybody  up  in  heaven 


130     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

wears  white — forever  and  ever.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  an  angel  wearing  a  pink  dress,  Nellie,  or  a  blue 
one?" 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  Nellie  promptly.  She  had 
never  laid  eyes  upon  one  of  Botticelli's  or  Fra  Angel- 
ico's  pictured  angels  in  their  gay  clothing.  "  Yes'm, 
I  guess  they  always  wear  white,"  she  went  on,  "  made 
up  something  like  a  nightgown,  an'  with  long  feather 
wings  behind." 

Miss  Cynthia  sighed.  These  were  her  own  regretful 
conclusions. 

"  All  that  I've  seen  in  pictures  are  about  one  style," 
proceeded  Nellie,  tilting  her  pretty  head  thoughtfully. 
"  Just  plain  white,  with  a  round  neck,  sort  of  low ;  and 
sometimes  there's  a  breast-pin  on  one  shoulder,  to  hold 
the  fulness,  I  suppose.  They  'most  always  wear  their 
hair  down  their  back,  and  no  shoes  or  stockings.  I 
sh'd  think  they'd  look  real  queer,  shouldn't  you, 
ma'am?  There's  pictures  of  'em  like  that  in  our 
'  Pilgrim's  Progress.' ' 

Miss  Cynthia  was  sitting  up  very  straight ;  she  had 
spread  out  the  pink  silk  dress  across  her  lap.  "I 
might  as  well,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "Malvina 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     131 

Bennett  will  be  glad  of  the  work.  Yes,  I  will  have  a 
pink  dress,  and  a  blue  one,  too.  I  should  like  a  red 
dress  for  next  winter,  and  a  warm  brown  one,  the 
colour  of  ripe  nuts,  for  fall,  and  a  soft,  cool,  green 
one  for  summer.  There  are  so  many  pretty  colours, 
when  you  think  of  it,  Nellie !  " 

Miss  Cynthia  was  making  a  rapid  division  of  the 
articles  on  the  floor.  "  Some  of  these  will  be  pretty 
for  you  to  wear,  Nellie,  when — when  you  are  mar- 
ried," she  said  softly.  "Put  them  away  till  then, 
and  these  you  may  hang  in  the  spare-room  closet." 

"  Oh ! "  gasped  the  girl,  in  a  stupor  of  wonder  and 
delight.  "  All  these  pretty  things  for  me?  Oh,  how 
good  you  are,  Miss  Day ! " 

"  We'll  set  aside  some  of  the  furniture  for  you,  too," 
pursued  Miss  Cynthia.  "  I — I  should  like  to  help  you 
to  be  happy.  It  must  be " 

She  stopped  short,  her  blue  eyes  brimming  with  a 
wistful  light.  "  Everybody  ought  to  be  happy — • 
sometime,"  she  said. 

And  Nellie  Ryan  hurried  downstairs  to  tell  Bill  that 
Miss  Cynthia  was  a  real  angel,  even  if  she  didn't  wear 
feather  wings. 


132     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

At  twilight,  when  the  robins  were  singing  raptur- 
ously in  the  budding  elms,  the  bonfire  was  lighted. 
Miss  Cynthia  and  the  Puffer  twins  watched  it.  How 
the  flames  did  roar  and  sparkle  in  scarlet  and  yellow 
splendour  as  they  devoured  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of 
lives  swept  away  so  long  ago  in  the  inexorable  flood  of 
years.  Very  soon  little  remained  save  a  heap  of  glow- 
ing coals.  Miss  Cynthia  regarded  them  with  vague 
sadness.  She  was  wondering  why  things  lasted  so 
much  longer  than  their  owners.  The  vision  of  a  life 
eternal  appeared  so  ghostly  dim,  so  far-away,  so  hope- 
lessly shadowed  with  strong-scented  funeral  flowers 
and  shrouds  and  coffins  and  chill,  damp  graves  and 
cold,  reticent  tombstones. 

"Do  you  ever  think  much  about  going  to — to 
heaven,  children  ? "  she  asked  the  twins,  who  stood 
quietly  hand  in  hand  watching  the  fitful  flames,  as 
they  rose  and  sank  and  hovered,  spirit-like,  over  the 
vanished  form  of  the  three-legged  stool. 

"Not  if  we  c'n  help  it,"  said  Harriet  promptly. 
"We  don't  want  to  be  buried  up.  You  have  to  be 
buried  up  'fore  you  can  go  to  heaven." 

"  But  you  know  it's  only  our  poor,  frail  bodies  that 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     133 

are  buried,"  argued  Miss  Cynthia,  in  a  small,  weak 
voice.  "  Our  ransomed  souls  go  to  heaven — if  we  are 
only  good." 

"We  aren't  good,"  said  Harriet  firmly.  "An*  we 
don't  want  to  go  to  heaven.  You  have  to  wear  a 
crown  an'  play  on  a  harp  in  heaven,  an'  we  don't  want 
to  play  on  a  harp;  we  don't  want  wings,  either.  Do 
you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  distinctly.     "  I  do  not." 

"What's  the  use  of  talkin'  'bout  it  then?"  asked 
Harriet  blandly. 

"  Sometimes — people — have  to  die,  whether  they 
want  to  or  not,"  faltered  Miss  Cynthia.  The  terrible 
little  pain  pricked  her  as  she  spoke. 

"We  don't  b'lieve  we'll  die,  anyway,"  said  Harriet 
doggedly.  "  Once,  our  Sunday-school  teacher  said 
we'd  ought  to  think  'bout  dying.  So  we  tried.  We 
held  our  breath  a  nawful  long  time,  till  we  got  just 
as  red  as  fire  in  our  faces.  'N'  we  foun'  out  'at  you've 
just  gotta  live.  You  can't  help  it.  That  fire's  just 
right  now  to  pop  corn  on.  Come  on  an'  get  the  pop- 
per, Ed!" 

"It's  really  quite  a  long   time   till   next   spring," 


134s     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

thought  Miss  Cynthia,  as  she  looked  up  through  the 
swaying  elms,  through  which  bright  stars  were  be- 
ginning to  peep  like  friendly  eyes.  "  Perhaps — if  I 
don't  think  about  it — I'll  forget.  I  wish  I  could 
forget ! " 

"  Supper's  ready,  ma'am ! "  called  Nellie  Ryan, 
thrusting  her  rosy  face  out  at  the  door.  "  An'  I've 
built  a  beautiful  bright  fire  in  the  dining  room ! " 

At  bedtime  Miss  Cynthia  perused  three  long  and 
difficult  chapters  in  her  regular  course  of  Bible  read- 
ing. She  was  engaged  in  reading  the  Bible  through 
for  the  twenty-seventh  time  since  the  days  when  the 
nightly  exercise  had  constituted  one  of  the  dreaded 
"stents."  The  three  chapters,  with  her  morning 
psalm,  she  had  always  regarded  vaguely  as  a  blood- 
less sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  a  "jealous  God." 

On  this  occasion  the  evening  offering  consisted  of 
three  chapters  from  Chronicles,  full  of  curious  names, 
hard  to  pronounce.  Miss  Cynthia  toiled  bravely 
through  them,  paying  anxious  heed  to  the  many-syl- 
labled words.  She  was  haunted  by  an  uneasy  sense 
that  she  ought  to  be  unusually  religious,  in  view  of 
the  event  which  loomed  terribly  in  her  near  future. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     185 

She  wondered  timidly  if  Bukkiah  and  Jesharelah  and 
Azareel  and  Jeremoth  and  all  the  others  of  those  long- 
dead  sons  of  Gedaliah  were  wearing  white  dresses, 
made  up  like  nightgowns,  with  breast-pins  on  the 
shoulders,  and  long  feather  wings  behind ;  and  if  she 
herself,  similarly  attired,  would  be  obliged  to  meet 
them  on  that  awesome  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire. 
The  prospect  was  somehow  singularly  depressing. 

She  remained  long  on  her  knees,  striving  to  frame 
into  acceptable  rhetoric  a  series  of  innocently  hypo- 
critical petitions,  which  she  weakly  hoped  would  grat- 
ify the  Breyfogle  conception  of  deity. 

The  Breyfogle  God  was  possessed  of  a  terrible,  cold, 
unwinking  eye,  immovably  fixed  in  the  region  directly 
above  the  ceiling  of  her  bedroom.  His  large,  at- 
tentive, critical  ear  bent  down  from  a  dreadful  height 
for  the  express  purpose  of  listening  to  what  she  had 
to  say  about  her  soul,  and  about  the  heathen,  and 
about  the  community  in  which  she  lived.  Miss  Cyn- 
thia had  always  been  especially  zealous  for  the 
heathen. 

When  at  last  all  was  finished  she  climbed  into  her 
chilly  bed  and  lay  there  crying  quietly.  "  I  don't 


186     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

see  why  I  want  to  live  so ! "  she  moaned  to  herself — 
the  Self  who  is  always  unobtrusively  ready  to  listen 
to  our  weak  complainings,  to  our  futile  regrets,  to 
our  voiceless  aspirations.  "  But,  oh,  I  do  want  to 
live!  I  want  to  be  happy  like  other  folks.  Why 
should  I  have  to  go  to  heaven  now  ?  I've  been  expect- 
ing something  to  happen  all  these  years — something 
— beautiful!  But  it  hasn't  happened — yet.  I  wish 
it  would  happen  right  away.  I  wish  I  had  friends, 
and  some  pretty  clothes — pink  dresses  and  blue.  I 

wish — I  wish " 

Who  can  explain  what  actually  happens  to  us  when 
we  sleep?  Does  the  unseen  self  slip  out  into  the  vast, 
gray  void  and  wander  far — far  from  its  inert  shell? 
Do  strange,  wise  helpers  find  it  there  in  that  dim  bor- 
der-land, staggering  beneath  its  burden  of  pitiful 
wants?  Do  they  plead  with  it — to  understand? 


AT  exactly  six-thirty  by  the  clock  on  Thursday  morn- 
ing Deacon  Scrimger  tied  his  dejected  white  horse, 
drawing  a  roomy  spring  wagon,  to  the  hitching  post 
in  front  of  the  Breyfogle  house  on  Maple  Street. 
Nellie  Ryan  was  sweeping  the  front  piazza  with  long, 
even  strokes  of  her  broom,  but  she  stopped  short  to 
watch  the  old  man  as  he  crunched  briskly  up  the 
gravel  walk. 

He  was  very  thin  and  angular,  was  Deacon  Scrimger, 
so  stooped  that  his  large,  lean,  aquiline  old  face  ap- 
peared to  be  curiously  attached  to  the  front  of  his 
body.  He  moved  with  an  agile  nimbleness  of  foot 
which  somehow  offended  the  youthful  eyes  of  the  girl. 
"  I've  called  around  to  git  the  stuff,"  he  began,  with 
a  preliminary  wheeze  and  snuffle  like  that  of  a  rusty 
engine.  "  I  says  to  m'  wife,  I  c'n  save  Cynthy  Day 
a  deal  of  trouble,  I  says,  fust  an'  last,  by  jest  haulin' 
the  hull  outfit  over  to  my  place.  No  doubt  some  of 

137 


138     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

it  '11  want  fixin'  up — it  bein'  old  stuff,  an'  I'll  ten'  t* 
that ;  arterward,  we'll  see  to  disposin'  of  it  to  the  right 
parties.  I'll  jest  take  it  right  out  now,  if  you'll  show 
me  where  't  is." 

"Does  Miss  Day  expect  you?"  asked  Nellie  coldly. 

"Why,  cert'nly,  my  good  girl,  cert'nly;  I  tol'  her 
a-Sunday  I'd  call  eround.  If  she  ain't  up  yit  there's 
no  use  to  disturb  her.  I'll  jest  look  the  stuff  over 
an'  take  my  pick  right  now ;  I  dunno  as  I  c'n  haul  it 
all  one  trip,  but  'tain't  fur." 

"  I'll  have  to  ask  Miss  Day,"  said  Nellie,  with  a  dis- 
dainful smile,  "  and  I  never  disturb  her  until  seven 
o'clock." 

"The'  's  the  cause  of  foreign  missions,"  pursued 
Deacon  Scrimger  thoughtfully,  as  he  edged  past  the 
girl  so  as  to  command  a  view  of  the  front  hall,  "  an* 
the  paster's  salary  more  'n  a  hunderd  dollars  in  ar- 
rears, an'  no  way  to  git  it,  times  bein'  hard  an'  money 
close,  an'  nec'sary  repairs  on  the  meetin'-house  roof. 
I  figur'  'at  I  c'n  turn  this  'ere  occasion  into  one  of  re- 

joicin'  fer  the  cause,  an'  at  the  same  time Was 

these  'ere  the  articles  ?  " 

"  Miss  Day  intends  to  set  them  out  in  the  front  yard 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     139 

at  ten  o'clock,  an'  let  people  take  their  pick,"  said 
Nellie  stonily.  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pettibone  are  coming, 
an'  they'll  help  see  that  the  right  folks  get  their 
share." 

"The'  ain't  a  particle  o'  use  o'  all  that,"  argued 
Deacon  Scrimger  amiably.  "  It  '11  tromp  up  the  front 
yard  turrible ;  I  don't  s'pose  she's  thought  of  that ; 
an'  more  'n  likely  the  most  undeservin'  folks  in  town 
'11  be  on  han'.  'Tain't  right  to  give  things  away, 
anyhow.  'Tain't  law,  an'  'tain't  gospil,  if  you  git 
right  down  to  it.  Folks  'd  ought  to  pay  fer  what 
they  git  in  this  world.  They  don't  value  nothin'  'at 
they  don't  pay  fer  in  hard  cash." 
"  Did  you  want  to  buy  the  things,  sir?  " 
Deacon  Scrimger  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully. 
"Well!"  he  ejaculated  at  length.  "I — was  thinkin' 
of  haulin'  the  stuff  over  to  my  place,  as  I  tol'  ye ;  an' 
arter  I'd  put  it  in  order,  sellin'  it  fer  a  low  price  to 
d'servin'  folks  as  'd  ought  to  hev  it.  You  see  I  c'd 
ten'  to  that  part  of  it  as  she  can't,  bein'  a  female. 
The  resultin'  cash  I'd  'lotted  to  donate  to  the  church, 
reservin'  a  small  sum  to  compensate  me  fer  my  trouble. 
That's  the  idee,  an'  it's  a  good  one.  An'  say!  I 


140     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

shan't  mind  givin'  you,  well — say  a  dollar  fer  yer 
good  will." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  if  I  let  you  take  all  these  things 
away  now  without  telling  Miss  Day  that  you'll  give 
me  a  dollar?" 

"  Well,  I  dunno  's  I'd  put  it  jest  that  way,  but — yes, 
that's  about  the  idee.  I  won't  pay  ye,  though,  till 
the  stuff  's  delivered." 

"  But  what  would  you  do  if  Miss  Day  objected  to 
your  plan  when  she  found  it  out.  She'll  be  coming 
down  pretty  soon." 

"  Tee — hee — hee !  "  giggled  Deacon  Scrimger. 
"  You  ain't  nobody's  fool,  be  ye  ?  It's  somethin'  like 
this,  m'  gal,  she  giv'  out  in  public  meetin'  that  she 
was  calc'latin'  to  give  away  the  stuff  to  anybody  that 
wanted  it.  Now  /  want  it.  I  want  the  hull  of  it,  fer 
r'ligious  purposes,  as  I  tol'  ye.  'F  I  take  it  on  those 
air  conditions  I  guess  she  'd  find  it  purty  middlin'  hard 
to  git  a-holt  of  it  agin,  even  if  she  went  to  law  'bout 
it.  D'  ye  understan'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Nellie  Ryan,  her  pretty  face  in  a 
blaze  of  indignation.  "And  do  you  know  what  I 
think  of  you?  I  think  you're  a  horrid,  mean  old 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     141 

skinflint,  that's  what  you  are!  A  lot  you'd  give  it 
to  the  church,  wouldn't  you?  An'  you'd  give  me  a 
dollar,  indeed!  What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"  I  take  ye  f  er  a  mighty  sassy  little  tyke,  that's 
what  I  take  ye  fer!  You'd  ought  to  be  switched 
right  smart  fer  talkin'  that  way  to  me.  But,  say ! " 
The  old  man's  manner  suddenly  changed — "  mebbe  I 
didn't  offer  ye  'nough.  S'pose  we  say  a  dollar  down, 
right  now,  an' — well,  I  don't  care  if  I  make  it  a  dol- 
lar an'  a  half  extry,  arter " 

"  Stop ! "  cried  Nellie,  stamping  her  foot.  "  Don't 
you  talk  to  me  no  more.  I'll  tell  Miss  Day  what 
you've  said.  I'll  tell  everybody  you " 

"An'  I'll  tell  everybody  you  lie,"  retorted  the  old 

man,  eyeing  the  girl  malevolently.  "  I'll  tell  'em 

Well,  you  jest  hold  your  horses  fer  a  spell  an'  see 
what  happens.  Mebbe  you'll  be  sorry  yit  'at  you've 
been  so  mighty  brash.  I'll  be  eround  agin." 

He  hopped  nimbly  into  his  wagon  and  rattled  away, 
and  Nellie  Ryan,  breathing  hard,  marched  into  the 
kitchen  and  broke  the  treasured  cracked  tea-cup  and 
two  plates  in  the  stormy  process  of  getting  break- 
fast. 


142     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  merely  laughed  when  the  girl  told  her 
what  had  happened. 

"  That  was  certainly  a  bright  idea  of  Deacon  Scrim- 
ger's,"  she  agreed,  "  and  it  would  undoubtedly  save 
us  trouble." 

The  little  lady's  eyes  were  very  bright  and  her  cheeks 
were  actually  pink  as  she  helped  to  carry  the  smaller 
articles  into  the  fresh,  bright  morning.  She  was  wear- 
ing a  blue  dress,  hastily  constructed  by  Malvina  Ben- 
nett. The  Puffer  twins  put  in  a  busy  but  delight- 
ful hour  before  school  time,  and  George  Blossom  and 
William  Cartright — commonly  known  as  Bill — 
cleared  the  big  rooms  in  an  astonishingly  short  space 
of  time. 

Heavy  curtains  of  dignified  brocade;  dingy,  old- 
fashioned  shades ;  musty  carpets,  their  colours  religi- 
ously preserved  through  years  of  use;  stuffed  furni- 
ture; footstools  innumerable;  fancy  work  and  bric-a- 
brac  of  every  degree  of  hideousness  trooped  out  into 
the  green  yard  in  a  long  procession.  Clothing,  too, 
of  every  sort  and  description;  queer  full-skirted 
dresses  and  nondescript  hats;  broadcloth  coats  with 
Jong  voluminous  tails,  dating  back  to  Grandfather 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     143 

Breyf ogle's  time;  greatcoats,  waistcoats,  and  trou- 
sers, canes,  umbrellas,  and  shoes — all  looking  shabby 
and  ashamed  in  the  light  of  the  radiant  spring  morn- 
ing. Miss  Cynthia,  surveying  them  hopelessly,  was 
moved  to  wish  that  a  strong  wind  might  sweep  them 
all  away,  like  the  withered  and  forgotten  leaves  of 
yester  year.  The  stupendous  tides  of  Life  stirred 
strangely  in  her  blood;  for  the  first  time  she  dimly 
sensed  the  fact  that  old  things  must  pass  away  before 
the  on-rushing  flood  of  the  new. 

"  I  don't  believe  anybody  will  want  one  of  these 
things,"  she  said.  "I  don't  see  how  anybody  can 
want  them." 

But  at  nine  o'clock  the  street  began  to  fill  with 
people.  A  stranger  coming  into  Innisfield  on  that 
Thursday  morning  might  have  guessed  that  a  fair 
or  a  circus  procession  was  in  progress. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  a  stranger  did  come  to  town, 
and,  seeing  the  vehicles  hitched  to  every  convenient 
post  and  the  people  congregated  in  little  gossipping 
knots  on  every  street  corner,  asked  a  few  casual  ques- 
tions. The  answers  he  received  filled  him  with  curi- 
osity and  astonishment.  He  was  a  tall  man,  with 


144     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

a  strong,  clean-shaven  face  and  a  pair  of  youthful, 
dark  eyes  which  belied  his  gray  hair. 

"  'Tain't  an  auction,  'xactly,"  one  old  farmer  in- 
formed him.  "  I  do'  know  what  you'd  call  it.  We 
come  to  town  to  see  the  show  more'n  anythln'  else; 
but  I  b'lieve  m'  wife's  got  a  marble-topped  table  an' 
some  kind  of  a  fancy  book.  She's  always  been  han- 
kerin'  arter  one  of  them  tables  with  a  grave-stun  top 
sence  we  was  married,  but  we  ain't  seen  our  way  clear 
to  gittin'  it.  I  tol'  m'  wife  I'd  feel  kind  o'  shabby 
'bout  takin'  it  home,  seein'  we  didn't  pay  nothin'  fer 
it,  but  she  says  she  was  fair  urged  to  take  it.  Miss 
Day,  she  jest  insisted.  It  doos  beat  all ! " 

"  Miss  Day  ?  "  repeated  the  stranger  inquiringly. 
"I  used  to  know  a  person  by  that  name  who  lived 
about  here — a  Miss  Cynthia  Day." 

"  Same  name,"  the  farmer  told  him  with  a  chuckle. 
"An5,  my  gracious!  I  guess  she's  a-losin'  her  mind! 
If  you  ever  knew  any  o'  the  fam'bly  I  reckon  you'll 
remember  that  the  hull  kit  an'  caboodle  of  'em  was 
closer  'an  the  bark  to  a  tree.  They  never  give  up 
anythin'  they  onct  got  their  han's  onto ;  you  couldn't 
git  'em  to  even  think  of  it.  Miss  Cynthy  is  the  last  of 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     145 

'em,  an'  a  chip  o'  the  old  block,  as  we  always  s'posed ; 
but  she's  took  an  awful  curious  turn  all  of  a  sudden, 
an'  is  givin'  away  pretty  much  everythin'  in  the 
house." 

"  Perhaps  she  means  to  move  away,"  hazarded  the 
stranger. 

"No,  that  ain't  it;  she's  repairin'  her  house,  an' 
most  likely  wants  to  fix  up  bran'  new.  'Tain't  gittin' 
red  of  her  things  that's  s'prised  folks  so ;  but  it's  the 
way  she's  gone  about  it.  If  she'd  auctioned  'em  off 
nobody  'd  have  said  anythin' ;  but  to  give  'em  away — 
Gosh!" 

The  stranger  thoughtfully  made  his  way  toward  the 
Breyfogle  house  on  Maple  Street.  He  met  numer- 
ous persons  coming  away,  some  laughing  derisively, 
others  solemnly  content;  nearly  everybody  carried 
something.  Nobody  noticed  him  when  he  quietly 
opened  Miss  Cynthia's  gate  and  walked  in. 

A  group  of  excited  persons  were  arguing  hotly  over 
an  armchair  which  seemed  in  danger  of  being  rent  in 
twain.  The  matter  was  presently  settled  by  a  small 
lady  in  a  blue  dress,  who  marched  up  to  the  com- 
batants with  an  air  of  authority.  "I've  already 


146     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

given  this  chair  to  Sarah  Hopkins,"  she  said,  "  and 
this  footstool;  she  needs  them  for  her  old  mother." 

The  lady  in  the  blue  dress  did  not  glance  at  the 
stranger;  she  was  evidently  exceedingly  busy  and 
very  much  in  demand.  But  the  stranger  followed 
her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hurried  away  to  another 
group. 

"  Were  you  looking  for  anything  in  particular,  sir?  " 
asked  a  polite  voice  at  his  elbow.  He  glanced  down 
at  the  speaker.  She  was  a  little  woman,  with  a  fluff 
of  light-brown  hair  shading  childish  eyes.  "  I  am 
the  minister's  wife,"  she  went  on  with  a  pretty  air  of 
importance,  "  and  I  am  trying  to  help  distribute  these 
gifts  of  Miss  Day's  to  the  best  advantage.  It's  a 
beautiful  idea,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand  it,"  he  said,  his 
dark  eyes  full  of  a  laughing  light.  "Just  why  is 
Miss  Day  giving  her  things  away  ?  " 

"Do  you  know  her?"  demanded  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

"  I  used  to  know  her,"  he  answered.  "  I  knew  some- 
thing of — the  family  when  I  was  a  boy.  You 
probably  don't  remember  me.  I  remember  you  as 
Miss  Philura  Rice." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     147! 

The  minister's  wife  stared  hard  at  the  stranger. 
"  Why  you're  not " 

"  I  am  James  Blake,"  he  said  briefly.  "  I  left  In- 
nisfield  about  fifteen  years  ago." 

The  minister's  wife  continued  to  gaze  earnestly  at 
him,  and  he  laughed  apologetically.  "  I  suppose  you 
are  wondering  why  I'm  here  now.  Really,  I  don't 
know.  I  happened  to  be  in  Boston,  and  concluded 
to  take  a  look  at  the  old  place." 

"I'm  real  glad  you've  come,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone 
hospitably.  "  I  remember  you  very  well  now ;  of 
course  you'll " 

"  I'm  going  back  to  town  directly,"  he  told  her  has- 
tily. "  In  fact  I  must  go  now — this  minute ;  I've  an 
important  engagement."  He  consulted  his  watch. 

"  Did  you  bring  your  wife  with  you  ? "  cordially 
inquired  the  minister's  wife.  "  I  should  so  much  like 
to  have  you  both  stop  to  dinner  with  us  at  the  par- 
sonage; Mr.  Pettibone  would  be  delighted.  You 
really  must  n't  go  away  without " 

"I  didn't  bring  my  wife,"  he  told  her  quizzically. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  pressing  engage- 
ment. His  eyes  were  upon  Miss  Cynthia,  who  was 


148     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

standing  on  the  steps  talking  to  a  very  large  woman 
in  a  fortress-like  bonnet.  "  She's  changed  very  lit- 
tle," he  said. 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Buckthorn?  She's  the  sort  of 
person  who  doesn't  change,  you  know,"  said  the  min- 
ister's wife.  She  was  thinking  very  hard,  was  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  and  to  very  little  purpose.  "I  expect 
Electa  Pratt  would  remember,"  she  thought  aloud. 

James  Blake  smiled  observantly.  "  Is  Electa  Pratt 
still  in  evidence?  "  he  asked.  "  If  she  is,  she  certainly 
would  remember — what,  for  example?" 

"  I  was  only  trying  to  think,"  murmured  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone,  very  much  confused.  "I  was  wondering " 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  speak  to  Miss  Day,"  he 
said.  "Will  you — will  you  present  me?  She  will 
have  forgotten  me,  I'm  sure." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  flushed  an  agitated  pink.  "  She  is 
coming  to  speak  to  me  now,"  she  said. 

Miss  Cynthia  in  her  blue  dress,  with  her  brown  hair 
ruffled  into  tiny  waves,  came  swiftly  across  the  grass. 
She  still  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  tall  stranger 
who  waited  at  Mrs.  Pettibone's  side.  There  had  been 
so  many  strangers  and  so  many  old  friends  and  neigh- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     149 

bours.  Nearly  everything  had  been  given  away,  and 
the  remaining  articles  had  been  marked  "Reserved" 
by  the  minister's  careful  hand.  She  was  happier  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  in  the  unaccustomed 
glow  of  making  other  people  happy.  So  it  did  not 
surprise  her  in  the  least  when  Mrs.  Pettibone  caught 
her  warmly  by  the  hand.  "  An  old  friend,"  she  mur- 
mured, "perhaps  you  will  remember."  Then  the 
minister's  little  wife  slipped  away  and  left  the  two 
standing  there  together. 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  up  and  met  the  dark  eyes  of 
the  tall  man.  He  was  smiling  down  at  her  with  a 
half  admiring,  half  quizzical  glance.  "  Now  I  won- 
der," he  said  softly,  "  if  you  have  the  slightest  idea 
who  I  am?  It's  a  long,  long  while  since  you've  seen 
me,  and  the  years  haven't  been  kind  to  me,  as  you 
can  plainly  see.  You  are  changed  very  little,  Miss 
Day." 

Miss  Cynthia  drew  a  deep  breath.  Then  she  smiled 
a  wistful,  mysterious  sort  of  a  smile.  "  How  strange 
that  you  should  come  back — now"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  do  remember  me?  "  He  was  puzzled  by 
her  look,  which  seemed  to  lend  a  strange  aloofness  to 


150     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

her  small  person.  "  I  should  have  known  you  any- 
where," he  added  briskly.  "  But  perhaps  I'm  hardly 
fair  when  I  say  that,  for  I've  seen  you  once  before — • 
five  years  ago." 

"  Yes  ?  "  Her  voice  was  gentle  and  abstracted — in- 
different, the  man  thought. 

"  It  was  in  Boston,"  he  went  on,  in  a  matter  of  fact 
tone.  "You  were  buying  something  in  a  shop;  so 
was  I.  I  thought  at  first  I  would  speak  to  you, 
but " 

She  looked  at  him  with  quiet  understanding,  "  But 
you  changed  your  mind,"  she  finished.  "  I  am  glad 
you  did  not  speak  to  me  then." 

"Luckily  I'm  not  planning  to  bore  you  now,"  he 
went  on,  with  an  embarrassed  little  laugh.  "  I  really 
can't  tell  you  why  I  came  here  at  all.  A  curious  de- 
sire to  see  the  place  overtook  me.  One  cannot  ac- 
count for  the  freaks  of  impulse,  you  know.  And 

this — this "  He  glanced  about  the  disordered 

yard  with  a  slight  lifting  of  his  broad  shoulders. 
"What  impelled  you,  Miss  Day,  to  distribute  your 
cherished  ancestral  belongings  to  the  countryside  at 
large?" 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     151 

"  Don't  you  know?  "  she  asked  in  a  choked  little 
whisper.  "  Can't  you  guess  ?  " 

Manifestly  he  could  not,  for  he  was  regarding  her 
with  astonishment,  not  unmixed  with  dismay. 

" I  think  you  ought  to  know — you"  she  went  on. 
"  Because  it  was  for  this — I — sent  you  away.  I  lied 
to  you — then — because " 

He  frowned  perplexedly.  "  Oh,  I  had  forgotten  all 
that,"  he  said  with  cheerful  decision.  "A  boy  and 
girl  affair — one  can  afford  to  forget  or  laugh  at  it 
all,  when  one's  hair  turns  gray." 

"Have  you  forgotten?  Do  you  laugh — when  you 
think  of  it?  "  she  asked  wonderingly.  "  I  have  never 
laughed  to  think  that " 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  think  of  it  again,"  he  inter- 
posed hastily.  "  It  is  not  worth  while,  I  assure  you." 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  his  last 
words.  "  I  am  glad  you  came.  I  wanted  to  see  you," 
she  said,  with  a  happy  little  sigh.  "  It  seems  to — to 
match — everything  else." 

"You're  very  good  to  say  that,"  he  cried,  pulling 
out  his  watch;  "it  makes  me  sorry  that  I  must  bid 
you  good-bye.  I  had  almost  forgotten  my  train." 


152     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Her  little  hand  lay  for  a  moment  in  his,  the  strange 
aloof  happiness  of  her  look  brimming  over  in  two 
large,  bright  tears.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said  softly, 
and  turned  away.  She  did  not  look  at  him  again. 

He  saw  that  much  as  he  strode  away  down  the  street, 
for  he  deliberately  turned  and  looked  back. 


XI 


Miss  ROSALIE  SCOTT,  having  arranged  and  rear- 
ranged her  girlish  possessions  in  her  grandmother's 
well-rubbed  mahogany  chest  of  drawers,  and  hung 
and  rehung  the  pictures  and  ornaments  on  her  newly- 
papered  walls,  and  admired  for  the  hundredth  time 
the  sweet  freshness  of  the  metamorphosed  parlour, 
was  feeling  slightly  bored  with  lif e.  There  was,  to  be 
sure,  plenty  of  good,  wholesome  work  to  occupy  her 
time  in  the  big  farmhouse.  "  Helping  mother  "  was 
a  broad  and  comprehensive  term  which  seemed  to 
the  young  girl's  impatient  fancy  to  involve  slow 
years,  spent  in  endless,  irritating  duties. 

Mother  Scott  was  sweet  and  placid  as  she  compassed 
her  unvarying  round ;  indeed,  to  her  daughter's  secret 
wonderment,  she  actually  seemed  to  enjoy  herself  in  a 
staid,  elderly  fashion.  But  she  appeared  (to  Rosalie) 
to  regard  her  young  daughter  as  entirely  ready  to 
become  staid  and  elderly,  too. 

Rosalie's  education — including  three  terms  of  paint- 
ing lessons  and  four  years  of  piano  lessons — had  been 

153 


154     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

expensive;  but  it  was  now  well  over.  There  was  a 
new  piano  in  the  parlour,  and  over  it  hung  a  water- 
colour  painting  of  a  yard  of  pansies.  These  objects 
represented  very  concretely  the  ornamental  side  of 
the  young  woman's  attainments.  For  the  rest,  she 
was  vaguely  supposed  to  have  assimilated  the  contents 
of  the  pile  of  dull-coloured  text-books  which  had  been 
incontinently  consigned  to  the  attic.  She  did  her 
hair  becomingly  and  wore  her  clothes  stylishly. 
Father  and  Mother  Scott  exchanged  stealthy  glances 
of  delight  over  her  pretty,  uncommon  ways.  Her 
tall,  well-rounded  figure,  her  smooth,  abundant  dark 
hair,  her  flashing  white  teeth,  her  sparkling,  long- 
lashed  eyes  were  a  perpetual  wonder  and  delight  to 
them.  They  were  complacently  glad  that  they  had 
been  able  to  "  do  for  Rosalie."  But  all  was  now  com- 
pleted— finished.  Nothing  remained  to  be  expected 
or  desired  beyond  the  monotonous  though  perfectly 
comfortable  level  of  the  present,  which  stretched 
away  into  an  equally  monotonous  and  comfortable 
future. 

With  the  girl,  herself,  it  was  vastly  different.     She 
was  merely  waiting — though  quite  unconsciously — 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     155 

for  something  wonderful  to  happen.  She  did  not 
picture  to  herself  what  this  wonderful  something  was 
to  be ;  but  she  nevertheless  longed  for  it  with  ill-con- 
cealed impatience. 

When,  therefore,  George  Blossom,  driving  his  new 
phaeton,  and  wearing  a  smart  ready-made  suit,  ap- 
peared at  the  Scott  farmhouse,  he  was  made  very 
welcome  by  Miss  Rosalie.  Almost  any  interruption 
which  offered  to  break  the  colourless  monotony  of  her 
every-day  life  would  have  been  welcome ;  but  when  the 
interruption  took  the  shape  of  a  good-looking  young 
man  (wearing  passable  clothes  and  a  really  creditable 
necktie)  Miss  Rosalie  exhibited  an  elation  which 
alarmed  her  prudent  mother. 

"I  don't  want  you  should  encourage  him  to  come 
here  too  much,  daughter,"  purred  the  anxious  matron, 
hovering  uncertainly  about  her  daughter,  as  she  stood 
before  her  mirror  patting  and  pulling  herself  into 
shape  as  a  bird  preens  its  feathers.  "  Of  course  the 
Blossoms  are  real  nice  folks,  an'  all  that ;  but " 

The  girl  broke  into  a  light  trill  of  laughter. 
"Why,  Mother  Scott!  do  you  suppose  I'd  think  of 
such  a  thing?  "  she  demanded.  "  He's  only  a  common 


156     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

workingman.  But  I  suppose  I've  got  to  be  decently 
polite  to  him,  haven't  I?  I  do  wish  we  lived  in  the 
city;  things  are  so  different  there.  The  girls  at 
school  would  be  so  amused  to  think  I  actually  had  a 
call  from  a  young  man  who  papered  and  painted  our 
house ! " 

She  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  in  a  way  she  had 
learned  from  her  French  teacher,  and  her  mother 
breathed  an  anxious  sigh.  "Dear  me!"  she  mur- 
mured, as  the  girl  left  the  room,  "  it  is  such  a  task  to 

bring  up  a  girl.  I  wonder "  She  paused  to 

straighten  the  silver  trifles  on  the  dressing-table,  then 
went  down  to  her  kitchen,  her  honest  American  heart 
filled  with  vague  reproaches. 

George  Blossom  had  a  great  deal  to  say  for  himself. 
He  was  not  at  all  a  timid  young  man,  and  he  ex- 
hibited a  certain  masculine  masterfulness  of  manner, 
to  which  Miss  Rosalie  responded  with  brief  sentences 
and  fleeting  smiles  and  pretty  airs  of  deference. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Blossom  confidently,  "  that  you 
would  let  me  drive  you  down  to  the  village  to  call  on 
Miss  Day.  She  hasn't  the  remotest  idea  about  the 
papers  for  her  rooms,  and  yet  she  doesn't  want  me  to 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     157 

pick  them  out  for  her.  Perhaps  you  could  advise 
her ;  you  have  such  beautiful  taste,  Miss  Rosalie,  and 
you  know  exactly  what  you  want  every  time." 

"  That  Miss  Day  must  be  an  awfully  queer  person 
about  'most  everything,"  said  the  girl,  with  one  of  her 
little  shrugs.  "  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  amus- 
ing as  that  affair  of  hers  last  week.  Just  fancy 
pulling  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  things  out  of  one's 
house  and  giving  them  away  in  that  public  manner! 
Really,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  cared  to  have 
everybody  see  what  I'd  been  saving  up  all  those  years. 
It  must  have  been  rather  embarrassing,  I  should 
think." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  that  light ;  but  I  guess 
it  was  rather  queer  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Blossom,  with  an 
admiring  look.  "  The  fact  is,  I  expect  I'm  responsible 
for  the  whole  affair.  I  got  into  a  pretty  plain  sort 
of  a  talk  with  her,  and  without  really  meaning  to  do 
so,  I  told  her  the  truth  about  herself  for  once.  She 
seemed  dreadfully  stirred  up  and  in  earnest  by  the 
time  I  got  through.  It  was  really  that  that  put  her 
up  to  giving  her  things  away,  though  I  haven't  men- 
tioned it  to  anyone  else  except  mother." 


158     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

The  girl  lifted  her  pretty  eyebrows.  "What  a 
dangerous  person  you  must  be,"  she  said  coquettishly. 
"  I  shall  have  to  look  out  or  you'll  be  telling  me  the 
truth  about  myself;  I'm  sure  that  would  be  awfully 
unpleasant ! " 

"  I  mean  to  do  that  some  day,"  he  told  her. 

"Mean  to  do  what?"  she  asked,  with  the  wide  eyes 
of  uncomprehending  innocence. 

"  I  mean  to  tell  you  the  truth  about  yourself — and 
about  myself."  He  held  her  dark  eyes  determinedly 
with  his  own.  "  But  I  can't  do  it  yet.  I  shall  wait 
till " 

"  I'll  advise  you  never  to  do  anything  of  the  kind ! " 
breathed  the  girl,  with  a  nervous  little  laugh.  Her 
smooth  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed;  her  eyes  shone; 
her  strong  brown  hands  trembled  in  her  lap.  This 
was  life.  It  thrilled  and  interested  her. 

"  I  will  ask  mother  if  I  may  go  with  you  to  see  that 
funny  little  Miss  Day,"  she  added,  with  a  pretty 
air  of  condescension.  "  She  must  be  one  of  the  quaint- 
est persons  in  the  world — almost  like  a  character  in 
a  book.  I  love  to  study  quaint  persons!" 

"Do  you  know  I'm  not  going  to  paint  houses  or 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     159 

paper  rooms  all  the  rest  of  my  life,"  he  told  her 
abruptly,  when  they  were  driving  away  through  the 
gay  young  landscape.  Her  richly  coloured  face 
under  its  plumed  black  hat  was  turned  toward  him  in- 
quiringly. 

"  I'm  going  to  study  designing  next  year  in  earnest. 
In  fact,  I've  commenced  already.  I'm  taking  a  regu- 
lar course  in  a  correspondence  school." 

"You  arc?" 

He  nodded.  "It's  simply  great!  I'm  putting  in 
every  minute  I  can  get  on  it.  It's  fine  to  go  away  to 

school;  but  if  you  can't  do  that Anyway,  I'm 

going  in  to  win.  Do  you  understand?" 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  it's  awfully  nice  and  am- 
bitious for  you  to  try  and  improve  yourself,"  she 
drawled,  bending  her  long  neck  to  one  side.  "  Every- 
one owes  it  to  themselves  to  do  what  they  can,  I 
think." 

"  They  owe  it  to  other  people,  too,"  he  said,  staring 
hard  at  her  handsome  profile.  "  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing,  Rosalie,  I  shouldn't  care  a  darn  whether  I  im- 
proved or  not,  if  it  wasn't  for " 

"But  you  ought  to  care,  if  there  wasn't  another 


160     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

person  in  the  whole  world,"  interrupted  the  girl,  in 
a  kindly  didactic  tone.  She  looked  enchantingly 
pretty,  but  dangerous,  as  she  said  it. 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip  f  rowningly.  "  Of  course 
you  don't  care  what  I  do,"  he  said  gloomily ;  "  there's 
no  reason  why  you  should." 

"Why,  certainly  I  care!"  she  replied,  with  lifted 
eyebrows.  "I'm  always  glad  to  see  everybody  im- 
prove." 

He  jerked  his  lines  and  spoke  sharply  to  his  horse; 
then  appeared  entirely  absorbed  in  the  resulting  phe- 
nomena. 

The  girl  sat  silent,  a  slight  smile  of  entire  happiness 
dimpling  the  corners  of  her  red  lips. 

"What  a  comfortable  carriage  this  is,"  she  said 
after  a  while,  raising  her  voice  a  little  as  the  wheels 
rattled  over  the  loose  stones. 

"  Glad  you  think  so,"  he  said  tersely.  "  I  bought  it 
for  mother." 

She  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  stern  young  face. 
"  How  nice  of  you ! "  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  pretty  decent  sort  of  a  fellow  for  an 
ordinary  workman,"  he  answered,  with  a  careless 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     161 

flick  at  the  brown  horse.  There  was  a  queer  aching 
lump  in  his  throat ;  he  swallowed  hard  to  get  rid  of  it. 

"  Oh,  but  you  aren't  an  ordinary  workman,"  she 
cooed.  "You  have  lots  and  lots  of  talent.  Any- 
body could  see  that." 

"  Do  you  think  so ! "  He  turned  and  beamed  on  her 
like  a  young  god.  "I  believe  I  can  do  anything, 
Rosalie,  if  you'll  only — only  believe  im  me,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

The  girl  straightened  herself  with  a  pretty  air  of 
coldness.  "  I  am  always  interested  in  talented  per- 
sons," she  said  gently.  "  But  isn't  that  Miss  Day's 
house?  How  improved  it  is!  It  is  astonishing  what 
a  coat  of  paint  will  do  for  a  shabby  old  house.  It 
looks  positively  rejuvenated.  Really,  do  you  know  I 
should  think  you  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  to  work 
such  miracles  with  your  paint-pots  and  brushes.  It's 
ever  so  much  better  than  painting  poor  pictures  or 
making  poor  designs!"  She  smiled  brilliantly  into 
his  abashed  face. 

Miss  Cynthia  was  eagerly  glad  to  see  them.  She 
held  the  tall  girl's  hand  in  both  her  own  and  looked  up 
at  her  wistfully.  "How  you  have  changed,  my 


162     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

dear,"  she  said.  "  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  think  of 
helping  me  in  my  task  of  picking  out  wall-papers. 
First,  I  think  I  want  one  thing,  then  I  am  quite  sure 
I  shall  prefer  something  different,  and  it  is  all  so 
confusing." 

Miss  Rosalie's  bright  eyes  rested  meditatively  on 
the  small  person  of  her  hostess.  She  was  thinking 
that  it  was  really  very  odd  for  a  person  of  Miss  Cyn- 
thia's age  to  care  what  sort  of  wall-papers  she  had,  or 
what  sort  of  clothes  she  wore.  And  Miss  Cynthia  so 
evidently  did  care.  She  was  wearing  a  gown  of  soft, 
pale  green,  the  colour  of  young  leaves,  enlivened  with 
touches  of  white — the  tender  white  of  half -blown  blos- 
soms. Her  cheeks  were  delicately  flushed,  and  her 
blue  eyes  had  somehow  taken  to  themselves  the  soft, 
deep  colour  of  early  violets. 

"  She  is  really  quite  good-looking — considering," 
the  girl  told  herself,  with  ingenuous  surprise.  "  But 
I  don't  see  what  possible  difference  it  can  make  to 
her  now." 

She  was  delightedly  conscious  that  George  Blossom 
had  not  noticed  Miss  Cynthia's  finery,  and  that  he  was 
looking  furtively,  but  persistently,  at  herself,  his  hon- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     163 

est  eyes  pleading  with  her  to  be  kind.  She  was  pret- 
tily indifferent  to  all  this,  was  Rosalie,  and  so  very 
sure  of  her  accomplished  self  that  she  was  quite  ready 
to  give  her  undivided  attention  to  the  subject  of  Miss 
Cynthia's  wall-papers. 

It  was  absurdly  easy,  for  a  person  of  artistic  tastes 
and  cultivated  perceptions.  A  soft  leaf-green  was 
obviously  the  thing  for  the  big  southwest  parlour. 
And  the  rather  dark  and  narrow  entrance  hall  must 
be  illuminated  with  a  cheerful,  pale  yellow,  which 
would  greet  the  incoming  guest  like  a  burst  of  sun- 
light. Nothing  could  be  prettier  for  the  dining 
room  than  a  dull  gold,  with  a  frieze  of  ripe  pumpkins 
and  great  shadowy  leaves. 

And  so  they  went  through  the  empty  rooms,  where 
only  a  bit  of  old-fashioned  furniture  remained  here 
and  there — a  tiny  work-table,  a  bookcase  with  queer, 
diamond-shaped  glass,  a  mahogany  sideboard  with 
claw  feet. 

"  These  pieces  of  old  furniture  are  simply  dear!  " 
declared  the  girl.  "  But  just  what  do  you  mean  to 
put  with  them,  now  that  you've  given  away  all  the 
rest?" 


164     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  hesitated.  "  I'm  sure  you  will  think 
me  very  odd,"  she  said  appealingly ;  "  but  all  I  gave 

away  was  so  associated — with Do  you  know, 

my  dear,  I've  never  had  a  very  good  time — that  is, 
not  yet.  Oh,  I  do  hope  you'll  begin  right  away  to 
have  a  good  time — while  you're  young." 

"I  expect  to,"  said  Rosalie  Scott,  with  conviction. 
"  Why  shouldn't  I  have  a  good  time  ?  " 

She  held  her  little  chin  very  high,  and  her  dark 
lashes  cast  bewitching  shadows  on  her  soft  cheeks. 
But  how  palpably  absurd  it  was  for  an  elderly  person, 
like  Miss  Cynthia,  to  think  about  having  good  times ! 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  gently  and  glanced  side- 
wise  at  George  Blossom.  She  felt  sure  that  he  would 
agree  with  her.  "You  were  speaking  of  the  furni- 
ture, were  you  not?  "  she  reminded  her  hostess  sweetly. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  was — of  the  furniture.  I  was  go- 
ing to  tell  you  that  I  have  in  the  attic,  stored  away  by 
itself,  some  furniture  that  I  did  not  give  away.  It 
has  never  been  used  since  I  can  remember.  It  be- 
longed to  the  Breyfogle  family  ever  so  far  back. 
When  mother  was  married  she  wanted  to  have  things 
different,  you  know,  so  she  refurnished  all  of  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     165 

rooms  downstairs  and  most  of  the  chambers.  She 
wanted  everything  to  be  new  and — yes,  I  suppose  she 
liked  her  furniture  to  be  fashionable;  so  she  bought 
all  black  walnut,  with  a  great  deal  of  carving  and 
gilt  lines ;  the  bureaus  and  tables  all  had  white  marble 
tops,  and  the  carpets  were  covered  with  large  wreaths 
of  bright-coloured  flowers.  Perhaps  you  remember?" 

Miss  Scott  nodded.  "Dreadful,  wasn't  it?"  she 
said,  with  a  brilliant  smile.  "  The  early  Victorian 
style  of  furniture  is  quite  as  hideous  as  hoop-skirts. 
Really,  I  think  you  were  sensible  to  get  rid  of  it,  even 
if  you  had  to  give  it  away." 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  puzzled.  "  Everything  was 
very  nice  and — and  expensive,"  she  said  doubtfully. 
"I  gave  it  away  because — because  I  was  tired  of 
keeping  everything  for  myself.  Besides  I  disliked 
it  for — for  other  reasons.  The  furniture  upstairs 
is  as  old-fashioned  as  can  be ;  but  I  thought  it  would 
do  for  the  little  while " 

"  I  wish  you'd  show  it  to  me,"  said  Rosalie,  her 
girlish  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  her.  "/*  it 
mahogany  ?  Mahogany  is  all  the  rage  now." 

"Is  it?"  said  Miss  Cynthia  vaguely.     "Really,  I 


166     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

didn't  notice.  The  pieces  are  of  some  dark  wood,  I 
know,  very  old  and  queer.  If  you  won't  mind  coming 
upstairs  I  shall  be  glad  to  show  them  to  you." 

The  girl  burst  into  a  little  ecstatic  shriek  of  surprise 
and  delight  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  dusty  shapes 
huddled  together  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  Breyfogle 
attic.  "  Oh ! "  she  cried.  "  What  a  find !  You  are 
certainly  a  lucky  person.  Do  you  know  these  are  the 
dearest,  sweetest,  loveliest  old  mahogany!  To  think 
of  their  being  packed  away  up  here  in  the  dark  all 
these  years ! " 

"Are  they  really  nice?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  in  un- 
affected surprise.  "  I'm  glad  if  they're  really  good 
for  something.  I  should  like  the  rooms  to  look  pretty 
and — different." 

"Pretty!"  echoed  Miss  Scott.  "Do  look  at  that 
sofa!  Isn't  it  the  sweetest  thing!  and  those  chairs, 
and  that  exquisite  table !  And  not  one  piece  broken, 
or  even  marred !  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! " 

The  girl  was  really  carried  out  of  herself  with  de- 
light. "You  know  I  learned  all  about  the  value  of 
Colonial  furniture,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  when  I 
was  in  school  in  Boston,"  she  went  on,  with  a  serious 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     167 

air  of  superior  culture.  "  I  went  through  our  attic 
the  minute  I  got  home;  but  we  never  had  such  per- 
fectly ex^Mmte  things  as  these." 

"  They  have  been  in  the  family  for  generations," 
observed  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  touch  of  her  vanished 
pride.  "We  always  kept  everything;  and  we  took 
good  care  of  everything  we  kept.  Mother  and  Abby 
Whiton  used  to  rub  these  things  with  wax  every  year 
at  house-cleaning  time,  I  remember.  But  mother 
thought  them  very  ugly  and  old-fashioned." 

"  The  idea ! "  laughed  the  girl.  "  Well,  you'll  have 
the  most  stylish  house  imaginable.  Do  let  me  help 
arrange  it  when  it  is  ready ;  won't  you?  " 

"  I  shall  be  so  glad  if  you  will,"  Miss  Cynthia  told 
her. 

Her  blue  eyes  beamed  upon  the  two  young  people, 
with  innocent  pleasure  in  their  supposed  happiness. 

"George — Mr.  Blossom  has  told  me  all  about  your 
pretty  rooms,"  she  went  on.  "I  hope  he  can  make 
my  old  walls  look  just  as  pretty.  Then  we  can  do 
the  rest." 

Rosalie's  scarlet  lip  curled  cruelly.  "  We  found  Mr. 
Blossom  a  most  careful  and  conscientious  workman," 


168     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

she  drawled  indifferently.  "  I  am  recommending  him 
to  all  of  our  friends." 

The  young  man  grew  suddenly  pale.  He  turned  on 
his  heel  to  conceal  the  uncontrollable  quiver  of  his 
boyish  mouth. 

"  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to  take  me  home  now,  Mr. 
Blossom;  mother  will  be  growing  anxious,"  Miss 
Rosalie  concluded,  with  a  nice  propriety  of  manner. 

Miss  Cynthia  watched  the  two  uneasily,  as  they 
walked  down  to  the  front  gate,  the  girl  smiling  and 
brilliant,  the  boy  still  pale  and  downcast. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Miss  Cynthia,  "I'm — afraid!" 
She  lifted  one  fragile  little  hand  to  the  breast  of  her 
gay  spring  gown  and  held  it  there,  while  the  smiling 
girl  and  the  unhappy-looking  boy  drove  away  down 
the  street. 


XII 

ONE  warm  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  June  Mrs. 
Pettibone  stood  tapping  lightly  at  Miss  Cynthia 
Day's  side  door.  After  she  had  knocked,  the  little 
lady  quietly  surveyed  the  house  in  its  trim  purity  and 
perfection;  the  gravelled  walks,  the  velvet  lawn  dap- 
pled with  leaf  shadows  were  pleasant  to  the  eye;  so 
were  the  clear  windows,  revealing  cool  glimpses  of 
dainty  curtains  of  lace  and  muslin.  Mrs.  Pettibone 
had  been  intensely  interested  in  the  changes  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  old  Breyfogle  house.  The  subse- 
quent generous  donations  of  money  which  had  re- 
paired the  church  and  parsonage,  and  enabled  the 
minister  to  go  away  for  a  much-needed  holiday,  had 
aroused  her  to  a  sincere  gratitude  mingled  with  a  sense 
of  lively  curiosity. 

Ostensibly,  she  had  come  to  thank  Miss  Cynthia  for 
her  generosity  and  thoughtfulness.  Inwardly,  she 
was  determined  to  find  out  why  a  descendant  of  the 
Breyfogle  family  should  thus  suddenly  have  deflected 
from  the  hereditary  standards  of  conduct. 

169 


170     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  herself  presently  opened  the  door. 
She  smiled  wanly  into  the  face  of  her  pastor's  wife. 
There  were  violet  shadows  under  her  blue  eyes  (Mrs. 
Pettibone  observed)  and  her  little  hands  trembled. 
She  was  wearing  a  youthful  gown  of  pink  muslin, 
beruffled  and  befrilled,  and  a  broad  white  hat  laden 
with  pink  roses  shaded  her  colourless  face. 

"  You  were  going  out  this  morning! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pettibone  apologetically.  "  No,  indeed ;  I  won't  come 
in.  I  just  stopped  for  a  moment  to  thank  you;  you 
have  been  so  very  kind  and  generous." 

"But  I  was  only  going  into  the  yard,"  Miss  Cyn- 
thia protested.  "I  felt — lonely  and — and  tired  this 
morning.  I  waked  up  in  the  night,  and  I  couldn't  go 
to  sleep.  You  know  how  one  thinks  of  all  sorts  of 
things — those  that  have  happened  already,  and — and 
those  that  are — going  to  happen — not  always 
pleasant  things.  I'm  sure  you  think  me  very 
foolish." 

"  I  guess  most  of  us  are  f  oolish  that  way  at  one  time 
or  another,"  said  the  minister's  wife  comfortably. 
"  I  made  up  my  mind  long  ago  that  the  things  we  are 
afraid  of  in  the  night  are  not  worth  remembering  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     171 

next  morning — in  fact,  we  generally  forget  all  about 
them  as  soon  as  the  sun  is  up." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  in  and  see  my  house,"  said 
Miss  Cynthia,  with  the  air  of  one  who  determinedly 
changes  the  subject.  "  It  is  all  finished  at  last,  even 
to  the  kitchen.  It  has  taken  a  long  time — longer 
than  I  thought;  but  I  wish  I  had  it  all  to  do  over 
again." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  frankly  delighted  with  all  that 
she  saw  in  the  renovated  house.  "I  don't  see  how 
you  could  have  waited  so  long  to  do  it,"  she  said. 
"  But  you," — she  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  girlish 
figure  of  her  hostess, — "  you  have  changed  more  than 
the  house.  I  don't  believe  I  should  have  known  you — 
if  a  year  ago  I  had  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with 
you  in  that  pink  gown." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I've  taken  leave  of  my  senses," 
murmured  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  defiant  lifting  of  her 
small  head.  "  Almost  everybody  does  think  so,  I 
have  been  told.  But  I  don't  care.  It  doesn't  make 
any  difference  what " 

"I  think  you  are  a  wise  woman,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Pettibone  made  haste  to  interpose.  "You  ought  to 


172     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

know  what  I  would  be  likely  to  think."  She  lapsed 
into  a  thoughtful  silence,  then  added  in  a  low  voice, 
"  If  you  only  looked — happier.  Sometimes,  I  have 
wondered " 

"  I  am  happier  than  I  have  ever  been  before  in  my 
life,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  her  doggedly.  "  I  never  did 
anything  I  really  wanted  to  until  this  spring.  Then 
— I — made  up  my  mind  that  I  might  as  well — try — 
to  have  a  good  time  the  way — the  way  other  people 
do.  Yesterday  I  played  dolls  all  day  long  with  the 
Puffer  twins — because  when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was 
never  allowed  to  waste  my  time  with  dolls.  I  haven't 
thought  yet  what  I  want  to  do  next;  but  when  I  do 
I  shall  hurry  and  do  it  right  away.  I — I  must  hurry 
because  the  days  go  so — fast.  I  never  knew  a  sum- 
mer to  go  away  so  fast.  It  is  the  last  of  June 
already,  and " 

She  gripped  her  small  hands  together  in  her  lap. 
"  Don't  you  know  of  some  way  to  make  the  days  go 
slow?"  she  asked  the  minister's  wife,  with  a  dreary 
little  smile.  "  I  used  to  think  the  time  dragged  so ; 
but  it  doesn't  now.  Even  a  long,  long  night  goes 
away  so  quickly.  It  is  morning  before  I  know  it." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     173 

Mrs.  Pettibone  looked  sweetly  puzzled.  "I  don't 
see,"  she  said,  "why  you  should  want  the  days  to 
pass  slowly.  Every  day  is  sure  to  bring  something 
beautiful  with  it,  and  the  years  are  bearing  us  on  to 
something  more  beautiful  still." 

She  stopped  and  looked  carefully  at  her  hostess; 
Miss  Cynthia  sat  stonily  quiet,  her  small  hands  still 
gripped  in  her  lap.  "  You  are  thinking  about  heaven, 
I  suppose,"  she  said  dryly.  "  That  is  all  very  well 
if  you  haven't  got  to  go  there.  I  don't  believe  any- 
body really  wants  to  go  to  heaven.  I  don't.  I  want 
to  stay  in  this  world — a  long  time.  I  -want  to!  " 

"  Then  you  will,"  Mrs.  Pettibone  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  comfortable  conviction.  "Don't  you  remember 
that '  every  one  that  seeketh,  findeth ;  and  to  him  that 
knocketh  it  shall  be  opened  '  ?  " 

"That's  in  the  Bible,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a 
spent  breath  of  long  weariness.  "  I've  read  my  Bible 
through  twenty-six  times ;  I'm  reading  it  for  the 
twenty-seventh  time  now.  But  I — I  don't  like  to  read 
the  Bible.  I  think  it's  tiresome.  There  isn't  a  bit 
of  use  in  my  pretending  anything  else." 

"  Why  do  you  read  it  then  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pettibone 


174     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

unexpectedly.  "  I  shouldn't  read  a  word  of  it,  if  I 
didn't  want  to." 

"You  wouldn't!" 

"No." 

"But — oh,  I  must  read  it — and — and  pray.  I 
should  be  frightened  not  to  pray."  Miss  Cynthia 
had  grown  even  paler;  her  breath  came  in  little 
hurried  gasps. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  didn't  appear  to  notice.  She  vaguely 
understood  by  this  time  that  she  was  dealing  with  that 
very  terrible  thing — a  naked  soul.  "God  knows  all 
about  what  you  really  want,  even  if  you  don't  mention 
it,"  she  said  in  a  low,  shaken  voice.  "When  you 
really  want  something  you  must  believe  that  God  can 
give  it  to  you,  and  that  he  "wants  to  give  it  to  you 
even  more  than  you  want  it." 

Miss  Cynthia  shivered.  "  I  always  think  of — God 
— as — watching  me,  always  watching — and  displeased 
— angry.  I  am  not  resigned.  I  just  can't  say  '  Thy 
will  be  done.'  /  don't  want  it  to  be  done! " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  leaned  forward  in  her  chair ;  her  eyes 
were  radiant.  "I  used  to  think  just  that  way,"  she 
said.  "  And  I  was  ugly  to  look  at  and  lonesome  and 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     175 

forlorn,  and  I  believed  that  it  was  God's  will  that  1 
should  stay  that  way  till  I  died.  I  thought 
that  perhaps  if  I  bore  it  all  with  resignation  I  should 
go  to  heaven — a  queer  sort  of  place,  I  supposed  it 
was,  my  dear ;  and  I  didn't  want  to  go  at  all.  But 
I  thought  God  couldn't  find  that  out  if  I  only  went 
to  church  regularly  and  said  my  prayers  night  and 
morning.  I  never  dared  to  pray  for  anything  I 
really  wanted." 

She  paused  to  laugh  aloud — a  triumphant,  jubilant 
little  laugh  of  pure  delight  and  happiness.  "One 
day  I  heard  a  woman  say  that  whether  we  think  so 
or  not  God  is  good — all  sorts  of  good — anything, 
everything  I  could  think  of  that  /  wanted;  not  what 
somebody  else  thought  I  ought  to  want,  but  what  / 
wanted,  down  deep  in  my  heart. 

"  At  first,  I  hardly  dared  to  believe  it — I  had  grown 
such  a  coward — but  I  did  a  funny  thing,  I  am  sure 
you  will  say ;  I  wrote  out  a  list  of  the  things  I  wanted. 
And  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  they  were,  though 
I've  never  told  anybody  else  but  my  husband.  I 
wanted  two  new  dresses,  and  a  silk  petticoat — one  of 
the  nice  jrustly  ones,  you  know,  and  a  hat  with  ostrich 


176     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

plumes  and  a  long,  soft,  curly  feather  boa.  I  was  so 
ashamed  to  think  I  wanted  such  foolish  things.  But 
I  did  want  them;  and  I  got  every  one  of  them!  I 
have  that  feather  boa  yet,  and  I  never  put  it  on  with- 
out thinking,  *  this  was  a  present  from  my  Father.' 
It's  such  a  beautiful  thought.  Why,  it  makes  every- 
thing in  the  whole  world  beautiful !  I  don't  know  all 
that  God  is,  my  dear;  but  I  do  know  that  he  is  all 
good. 

"There  was  something  else  I  wanted,  too."  Mrs. 
Pettibone  sighed  and  smiled  reminiscently,  while  a 
girlish  colour  flushed  her  cheeks.  "  That  was  the  big- 
gest and  best  thing  I  asked  for.  It  was  so  wonderful 
that  I  hesitated,  at  first.  You  don't  remember  me 
as  I  was  then — a  regular  old  maid — yes,  that's  ex- 
actly what  I  was,  and  not  a  man  I  had  ever  known 
had  once  looked  at  me,  as — as  men  do  look  at  the 
woman  they  are  going  to  love."  Mrs.  Pettibone 
glanced  questioningly  at  Miss  Cynthia,  and  Miss 
Cynthia's  blue  eyes  answered. 

"I  did  long  to  have  somebody  love  me — like  that. 
And  so  I  asked  God  for — a  husband;  and  I  believed 
he  would  send  me  one,  and  he  did.  How  surprised  I 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     177 

was  when  I  found  out  who  it  was.  I  had  never  once 
thought  of  such  a  thing — truly,  I  never  had;  he 
seemed  so  wise  and  grand,  so  much  above  me!  But 
he  began  to  love  me  then,  and  he  has  never  stopped  a 
minute  since.  Oh,  my  dear,  God  is  so  kind,  so  gen- 
erous! I  wish  you  would  just  try  him  and  see  if  he 
won't  give  you  everything  you  want." 

"  But  I — I  am  not  good  like  you,"  faltered  Miss 
Cynthia.  "  I  am  not  resigned,  or  willing  to  submit, 
not  one  bit.  I'm  stiff-necked  and  rebellious.  And 
you  know  what  it  says  in  the  Bible  about  such 
people." 

"  You're  rebellious  just  because  you  think  God 
doesn't  want  to  give  you  what  you  want,"  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  said  wisely.  "And  you're  stiff-necked  because 
you're  determined  to  have  it.  It's  such  hard  work  to 
be  stiff-necked,  my  dear;  and  didn't  you  know  that 
you  never  want  a  thing  very  much  unless  God  wants 
you  to  have  it?  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  you 
want,  and  I  am  not  going  to  ask.  But  don't  read 
your  Bible  and  pray  just  because  you  think  it's  your 
duty.  I  should  never  read  another  word  of  the  Bible 
till  I  was  hungry  for  it." 


178     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

The  little  woman,  having  delivered  herself  of  these 
heterodox  opinions,  arose  and  kissed  Miss  Cynthia 
on  each  cheek,  after  the  fashion  of  women.  "  You've 
grown  pretty,"  she  said  softly,  "and  your  house  is 
beautiful.  I  can  see  that  you're  all  ready  to  be 
happy.  Now  just  be  happy!" 

Miss  Cynthia's  Breyfogle  conscience,  trained  to 
strenuous  theological  combat  through  successive  gen- 
erations of  Puritan  ancestors,  advanced  at  once  to  the 
fray,  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  retreating  form  of 
the  minister's  wife. 

"  That  woman  is  anti-Christ.  Don't  you  know  that 
*  our  God  is  a  consuming  fire '  ?  "  shouted  the  Brey- 
fogle conscience,  quoting  Scripture  with  disconcert- 
ing fluency.  "  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  living  God ! " 

"I  am  going  to  try  wanting  and  expecting,"  said 
Miss  Cynthia  obstinately. 

"You'll  be  cast  into  outer  darkness,  if  you  do; 
there  will  be  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth ! " 

"  I  intend  to  believe  that  God  loves  me." 

"Remember  that  you  are  trembling  on  the  verge  of 
the  tomb ! " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     179 

"  I  shall  try  to  have  a  good  time  while  I  do  lite." 

"  She  that  liveth  in  pleasure  is  dead  while  she  liveth," 
quoted  the  Breyfogle  conscience,  which  appeared  to 
have  memorised  most  of  the  severe  and  threatening 
texts  of  the  Bible,  and  used  them  without  regard  for 
the  context. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  contradicted  Miss  Cynthia 
faintly. 

"You  should  crucify  your  affections  and  desires, 
not  pamper  them." 

"  I  don't  want  to  crucify  them,"  murmured  Miss 
Cynthia  doggedly. 

When  pretty  Nellie  Ryan  called  her  mistress  to 
dinner,  she  was  surprised  to  observe  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  her  small,  wistful  face  since  break- 
fast time. 

It  was  indeed  no  longer  wistful,  but  flushed  and 
expectant. 

"Have  you  ever  wanted  things,  Nellie,  that  you 
thought  you  couldn't  have?"  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  as 
the  girl  filled  her  glass.  She  liked  to  have  her  pretty 
young  servant  linger  in  the  dining  room  while  she  ate, 
and  Nellie,  perceiving  this,  had  been  pleasantly 


180     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

flattered  by  it,  though  it  was  not  the  fashion  in 
Innisfield. 

"Have  I  ever  wanted  things  that  I  couldn't  have, 
ma'am?  "  echoed  Nellie.  "Why,  yes'm,  I  suppose  I 
have.  But  folks  don't  often  get  what  they  want  in 
this  'ere  world,  I've  always  heard  tell;  an'  I  guess 
it's  true  enough."  The  girl's  tone  was  unhappy, 
and  she  winked  fast  as  if  to  keep  back  the  insurgent 
tears. 

"  That's  what  I've  always  supposed,  too,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia  meditatively.  "But  suppose  there  was  a 
very  simple  reason  why  we  don't  get  what  we  want. 
And  suppose  I — we — should  find  out  what  the  reason 
was  all  of  a  sudden  ?  "  The  girl  looked  respectfully 
inquiring. 

"  Suppose  it  should  be  because," — pursued  her  mis- 
tress, with  a  frightened  joy  shining  palely  in  her 
face, — "just  because  we  won't  believe  that  God  is 
kind  and  generous  and  wants  us  to  have  things. 
Just  think  of  that,  Nellie !  how  different  it  would  make 
everything  in  the  whole  world  if  we  only  kiiew  it  was 
true — if  instead  of  being  stern  and  harsh  and  often 
angry  because  we  want  foolish  things.  He  was  really 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     181 

kind,  and  wanted  us  to  have  what  we  want — every- 
thing nice  and  pleasant  and  cheerful  and  pretty ! 
Oh,  I  wish  I  was  sure  of  it!  I  wish  I'd  found  out 
about  it  before !  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  now." 

The  girl  expressed  extreme  astonishment,  not  un- 
mingled  with  dismay  in  her  round,  solemn  eyes  and  up- 
lifted hands.  "Aren't  you  feeling  well,  ma'am?" 
she  asked  respectfully.  "  Perhaps  I'd  better  get  the 
camphor."  In  Nellie's  brief  experience  too  much 
"  religion "  au  naturel  was  a  decidedly  unhealthy 
symptom. 

"  I  do  feel  well,"  declared  Miss  Cynthia  stoutly. 
"  I  feel  better  than  I  ever  did  in  my  life.  I  want  to  be 
well,  Nellie.  Do  you  hear?  And  if  God  wants  me 
to  be  well,  too,  why  shouldn't  I  be  well?  And  it 
wouldn't  make  a  bit  of  difference  what  anybody  else 
thought,  or  said;  would  it?  " 

The  girl  regarded  her  mistress'  agitated  little  face 
with  a  suspicious  interest.  She  had  been  warned  by 
numbers  of  well-intentioned  persons  that  Miss  Cyn- 
thia was  "  growing  awful  queer."  Heretofore,  her 
"  queerness  "  had  been  of  a  sort  entirely  intelligible 
to  Nellie.  But  all  this  "  religious  business,"  as  the  girl 


182     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

termed  it  to  herself,  was  an  alarming  indication  of 
intellectual  decay. 

"I  haven't  seen  William  Cartright  about  the  place 
lately,"  pursued  Miss  Cynthia  unexpectedly.  "Is 
he  out  of  town?" 

The  girl  started,  blushed  violently,  then  her  voice 
broke  in  an  uncontrollable  little  sob.  "  He — he 
doesn't  come  to — to  see  me  any  more,"  she  faltered. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I — don't  know,  ma'am,  exactly.  Him  an'  me  had 
some  words  one  night  a  spell  back.  An'  I  suppose 
he's  mad  about  somethin'.  I  guess  I  c'n  stan'  it  if 
he  can,"  she  added  defiantly.  "He  ain't  the  only 
pebble  on  the  beach ! " 

Miss  Cynthia  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  depths  of 
her  tea-cup.  "You'd  better  try  wanting  him, 
Nellie,"  she  said  gently.  "  It  wouldn't  do  any  harm 
to  try.  I  think  he  will  come  back,  if  you  do."  Her 
voice  grew  stronger  and  more  determined.  "I 
believe  he  will  come  back,  if  you  do." 


XIII 

Miss  CYNTHIA'S  fat,  worn  little  Bible  had  lain 
unopened  upon  her  bedroom  table  for  two  whole  days, 
and  for  a  like  period  Miss  Cynthia  had  entirely 
omitted  to  mention  the  state  of  her  soul  or  the  press- 
ing needs  of  heathen  nations  before  the  Breyfogle 
conception  of  deity.  The  vision  of  the  great  unwink- 
ing, watchful  Eye — which  she  had  found  herself  un- 
able to  supplant  with  the  idea  of  the  Encircling 
Good — had  by  now  assumed  a  threatening  expression, 
difficult  to  support  at  the  stated  seasons  for  devotion. 
Try  as  she  would  to  dismiss  the  unpleasant  convic- 
tion, she  felt  that  the  owner  of  the  large,  attentive 
ear  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  unseemly  haste  of  her 
toilet,  conducted  in  the  accusing  presence  of  the  un- 
read book. 

On  the  third  morning,  having  pricked  her  fingers  on 
divers  pins,  torn  her  petticoat  and  broken  a  boot- 
lace— all  of  which  the  Eye  appeared  to  note  with 

183 


184     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

a  species  of  malicious  enjoyment — she  ran  downstairs 
like  a  hunted  thing,  and  out  into  the  tranquil  glories 
of  the  June  morning.  Great  white  clouds  like  islands 
of  snow  floated  in  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky;  the 
trees,  vividly  green  against  the  blue,  swayed  softly 
in  the  warm  wind ;  a  thousand  odours  of  sweet,  lush 
grass,  of  ripening  fruits  and  opening  blossoms 
breathed  spirit-like  in  its  subtle  presence. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  live — to  live!  "  she  prayed  passion- 
ately, and  knew  not  that  she  had  prayed. 

Someone  was  passing  along  the  elm-shaded  street,  a 
tall,  athletic  young  figure  in  blue  jeans.  Miss  Cyn- 
thia darted  forward  with  a  little  eager  cry. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  called ;  "  I  want  to  speak  with 
you."  She  met  William  Cartwright's  surprised,  in- 
quiring gaze  with  an  abashed  sinking  of  her  blue  eyes. 
"  Could  you — could  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes — 
that  is,  if  you  are  not  in  a  great  hurry?  I  haven't 
seen  you  here  lately.  I  was  wondering " 

The  young  workman  scowled  perplexedly.  "  If  you 
have  any  fault  to  find  with  the  work,"  he  said  stiffly, 
"  you  will  please  speak  to  Blossom,  ma'am.  I  worked 
under  him,  you  understan'." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     185 

"  Oh,  no, — no  indeed !  I've  no  fault  to  find  with 
the  work."  Miss  Cynthia  determinedly  suppressed 
her  growing  embarrassment.  "It  was — something 
quite  different.  It  was  this.  Why  have  you 
quarrelled  with  Nellie?  She  is  very  unhappy " 

The  coldly  inquiring  expression  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  deepened  into  anger  as  she  spoke.  Miss  Cyn- 
thia winced  under  his  steady,  resentful  stare. 

"  I  can  see,"  he  began  with  bitter  politeness,  "  that 
she  has  asked  you,  ma'am,  to  interfere.  But  I  guess 
I'd  best  tell  you  first  off  that  it  won't  do  any  good. 
I'll  not  be  takin'  up  with  the  likes  of  her  again.  Maw 
always  told  me  I  was  pickin'  a  wife  beneath  me,  an' 
I  knew  well  enough  I  was,  all  along.  But  I  wouldn't 

ha'  cared,  if "  His  voice  choked  a  little,  but  he 

went  on  with  dogged  determination,  "  if  she'd  ha' 
been  all  I  thought  she  was.  I've  found  she  ain't ;  an' 
that  ends  it." 

"Nellie  didn't  ask  me  to  interfere,"  Miss  Cynthia 
said,  gripping  her  little  courage  with  both  hands. 
"  It  is  I  who  am  interfering.  I  want  Nellie  to  be 
happy.  Could  you — tell  me  why  you're — angry? 
Perhaps  it's  all  a  mistake.  There  are  so  many  mis- 


186     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

takes,  you  know,  and  they  make  people  just  as 
unhappy  as — as  if  they  were  true.  I — I  made  a  mis- 
take once,  and  I've  always  been  sorry." 

The  young  fellow's  defiant  eyes  glistened  wetly. 
"  I'm  afraid  it's  no  mistake  about  Nellie,"  he  said  in 

a  low,  shaken  voice.  "  She — she They  say  she 

isn't — Good  Lord!  I  can't  talk  about  it?  Why  did 
you  ask  me?  I  guess  you  think  I'm  made  of  stone! 
Why,  I've  loved  that  girl  since  I  was  a  kid  in  knee- 
pants,  an'  we  was  both  in  district  school  together. 
She  was  just  like  a  little  pink  posy  in  them  days." 

"And  you  heard  a  mean  thing  about  her  and — 
believed  it?  "  Miss  Cynthia's  eyes  flashed  blight- 
ing scorn.  "  Oh,  you  make  me  angry — yes, 


angry 


William  Cartright  stared  in  a  sort  of  fearful 
admiration  at  the  little  figure  breathing  fine  contempt 
and  indignation  in  every  tremulous  line.  "  Jiminy 
crickets ! "  he  breathed  sincerely. 

"Who  said  such  a  thing  about  Nellie?"  demanded 
his  self -elected  Nemesis  sternly. 

"  Why,  I — I  do'  know  as  I  can  say,  exactly,  ma'am. 
It  was  maw,  in  the  first  place.  She  said  Mis'  Peter- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     187, 

son  told  her  she  guessed  Nellie  was  a  pretty  triflin', 
ornery  piece.  She  said  she  got  it  straight  from  Dea- 
con Scrimger  that  Nellie  wasn't  no  better  than  she'd 
ought  to  be." 

"I'd  like  to  know  who  is,"  murmured  Miss  Cyn- 
thia, ignoring  the  sinister  meaning  of  the  familiar 
phrase. 

"What  do  you  mean,  ma'am?" 

"Are  you  better  than  you  ought  to  be?  Are  you 
even  as  good  as  you  ought  to  be?" 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way,  maybe  not.  But 
when  a  man  like  Deacon  Scrimger " 

"  Stop ! "  ordered  Miss  Cynthia  imperiously.  "  I 
know  what  I  shall  do.  You  may  go  now.  But  I 
want  you  to  stop  here  and  see  me  to-night  as  you  go 
home  from  work.  Will  you?" 

The  young  fellow  shook  his  head  obstinately. 
"  The'  ain't  any  use  in  talkin'  'bout  it ;  I've  made  up 
my  mind  to  give  her  up,"  he  said  sulkily.  "  It  wasn't 
easy,  I  c'n  tell  you,  but  I've  gone  an'  done  it  now,  an' 
I  ain't  a-goin'  to " 

"  That  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  Miss  Cynthia 
told  him  disdainfully.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 


188     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Nellie  would  ever  look  at  you  again  after  the  way 
you've  treated  her.  Really,  I  don't  think  she  would. 
But  I  shall  not  allow  people  to  tell  hateful  lies  about 
her  to  me" 

An  hour  later,  Deacon  Scrimger,  piously  chanting  a 
stanza  of  a  well-known  revival  hymn  to  the  rasping 
accompaniment  of  his  plane  and  saw,  beheld  Miss 
Day  standing  in  the  door  of  his  shop. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  he  exclaimed  briskly.  "How- 
de-do,  Cynthy!  Nice  mornin'!  Walk  right  in! 
Glad  to  see  ye !  What  kin  I  do  f er  ye  this  mornin'  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia's  light-blue  gingham  skirts  swept  the 
yellow  shavings  crisply  as  she  advanced  to  a  position 
near  the  carpenter's  bench.  Her  head  was  held  at  an 
uncompromising  altitude  and  she  was  wearing  the 
Breyf ogle  expression.  "  I  came  to  find  out  why  you 
said  Nellie  Ryan  was  no  better  than  she  should  be," 
she  began,  without  apology  or  preamble. 

The  old  man's  jaw  fell.  He  stared  in  a  sort  of  dull 
amazement  at  the  cold-eyed,  determined  little  figure. 
"  I — I  d'clare  I  don't  know  what  on  airth  you're 
drivin'  at,"  he  began.  "I  ain't  never  said  nothin' 
*bout  nobody  to  hurt."  He  paused  to  give  vent  to  a 


[The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     189 

fit  of  senile  coughing;  then  a  malicious  gleam  twin- 
kled in  his  wintry  old  eye. 

"The  gal's  a  good-fer-nothin'  little  piece,  an'  the' 
ain't  no  denyin'  o'  that,"  he  went  on.  "  She  ain't  no 
better  'an  she'd  ought  to  be ;  I  know  she  ain't.  'F  I 
said  anythin'  like  that — an',  mind  you,  I  don't  remem- 
ber 'at  I  said  it — but  if  I  did,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  swal- 
ler  m'  words  fer  you  ner  nobody.  I  wonder  you'll 
hev  the  critter  in  the  house.  The  way  she  up  an' 
sassed  me — an  elder  in  the  church ! " 

"  Nellie  told  me  what  she  said  to  you  the  day  I 
gave  my  furniture  away,"  said  Miss  Cynthia.  "I 
think — I  should  have  said  something  of  the  sort  my- 
self, if But  I  didn't  come  to  talk  to  you  about 

that.  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  you  must  go  to  every 
person  that  you've  talked  to  about  Nellie,  and  take 
back  what  you  have  said.  Especially  to  Mrs.  Cart- 
right." 

Deacon  Scrimger  whirled  about  and  picked  up  his 
saw.  "This  is  my  busy  day,"  he  quoted  suggest- 
ively. "  I  ain't  got  no  time  to  fool  away." 

"  You'd  better  listen  to  what  I  say,"  said  Miss  Cyn- 
thia distinctly.  "At  noon  to-day,  if  you  haven't 


190     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

done  it  I  shall  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of  Jabez 
Tilman.  I  think  he'll  find  there's  damages  to  col- 
lect. I  shall  tell  him  to  collect  them — all,  every 
cent." 

The  old  man  bristled  like  a  dangerous  animal. 
"Who  air  you  to  come  here  a-threatenin'  me — right 
here  on  m'  own  premises?"  he  snarled.  "I'll  hev  ye 

to  know  'at  I'll  git  the  law  on  ye  f er — f er Oh, 

I'll  git  the  law  on  ye  f  er  somethin',  see  'f  I  don't ! " 

"  You'd  much  better  do  as  I  say,"  advised  Miss  Cyn- 
thia inexorably.  "You  can  tell  them  you  were  jok- 
ing. You  won't  mind  putting  it  that  way,  I  dare 
say." 

"  Well,  I  wa'n't,  so  to  say,  reel  serious.  But  I  can 
tell  ye  one  thing.  I  ain't  a  mite  o'  use  fer  sassy 
females ;  never  did  hev,  an'  ain't  now."  The  deacon 
paused  to  glare  malevolently  at  Miss  Cynthia.  "  Fe- 
males sh'd  be  kep'  under  subjection — under  rule,  an* 
if  they  ain't  got  no  male  pertecter  to  boss  'em,  they 
ain't  no  airthly  use  to  nobody !  Th'  'Postle  Paul  says 
'  let  yer  women-folks  keep  shet ' ;  an'  they'd  ought  to 
— all  the  endurin'  while.  Well,  I  s'pose  I'll  hev  to 
let  on  'at  I  was  funnin'  'bout  that  blamed " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     191 

"You'll  have  to  make  it  perfectly  clear  and  plain 
that  you  didn't  mean  a  word  you  said  about  Nellie 
Ryan,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  him  positively.  "  I  shall 
call  on  Mrs.  Peterson  and  Mrs.  Cartright  this  after- 
noon. They  will  tell  me  what  you  said." 

With  this,  Miss  Cynthia,  still  wearing  the  uncom- 
promising expression  of  countenance  peculiar  to  her 
Revolutionary  ancestors,  turned  and  marched  out  of 
the  shop. 

The  deacon  wagged  his  head  threateningly  after 
her  retreating  figure.  "  She'll  git  the  law  on  me,  will 
she?"  he  cackled,  rubbing  his  dry  old  hands.  "A 
female  woman  '11  git  the  law  on  me!  Huh ! "  He 
snatched  up  his  plane  and  pounced  agilely  upon  his 
interrupted  work,  the  while  his  cracked  voice  was 
again  uplifted  in  pious  song: 

"  Re-vive  us  a-ginl 
Fill  each  heart  with  thy  love! 
May  each  soul  be  re-kin-dulled 
With  fire  fom  &-bovel" 

Miss  Cynthia,  halfway  down  the  street,  paused  to 
listen.  "  Sometimes,"  she  murmured,  with  a  deepen- 


192     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

ing  of  the  Breyfogle  expression,  "  I  feel  almost — like 
being  an — infidel! " 

While  Miss  Cynthia  was  thus  triumphantly  follow- 
ing the  trail  of  the  small  but  spiteful  lie  which  had 
wrecked  Nellie  Ryan's  peace,  that  unfortunate  young 
person  was  undergoing  divers  peculiar  trials  of  her 
own.  Miss  Cynthia  had  conscientiously  endeavoured 
to  induct  Nellie  into  various  frugal  practices,  calcu- 
lated to  increase  the  material  comfort  of  a  humble 
home,  among  which  was  the  "trying  out"  of 
"  drippings." 

Quite  naturally  and  inevitably  Nellie  turned  up  her 
pretty  nose  at  Miss  Cynthia's  housewifely  customs. 
But  she  docilely  endured  them,  while  resolving  to  do 
as  she  wastefully  pleased  in  her  own  small  kitchen. 

The  memory  of  this  futile  resolution  lent  peculiar 
poignancy  to  the  operation  of  "  trying  out "  on  this 
particular  morning,  and  her  eyes,  blurred  with  unshed 
tears,  caused  her  to  splash  the  smoking  fat  on  her 
round,  white  arms  as  she  poured  it  into  a  small  brown 
jar  of  ancient  Breyfogle  date.  The  girl  gave  an 
angry  little  shriek  and  dropped  the  fat-kettle,  which 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     193 

in  its  turn  smashed  the  brown  jar.  Whereupon,  the 
"  drippings,"  in  simple  obedience  to  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation, proceeded  to  drip — all  over  the  well-scoured 
table,  and  down  in  deliberate  oily  little  streams  to  the 
floor. 

Miss  Cynthia  had  earnestly  assured  Nellie  that 
"  drippings  "  would  go  a  great  way  in  a  house.  The 
girl,  observing  this  practical  demonstration,  was  now 
sure  of  it. 

"  I  don't  care ! "  she  cried,  the  vexed  tears  following 
the  example  of  the  drippings.  "  I  don't  care  one  bit, 
so  there ! " 

She  sank  down  in  a  chair  and  apathetically  watched 
the  slow  meanderings  of  the  cooling  fat.  She  had 
reached  the  point  where  misery  becomes  an  absolute 
luxury.  "  I  suppose  I  sh'll  always  be  drudgin'  about 
in  somebody  else's  kitchen,  just  like  this,"  she  moaned, 
and  rocked  herself  back  and  forth,  nursing  her 
burned  arms.  "Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  What  shall 
I  do!" 

This  piteous  plaint  was  answered  in  unexpected 
fashion  from  the  back  door  which  stood  open  onto 
the  sunny  porch. 


194     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Well!  I  want-torknow !  "  exclaimed  a  voice.  The 
tentative  inquiry  was  completed  by  a  cogent,  com- 
prehensive sniff  which  appeared  to  arrest  the  attention 
of  even  the  wandering  drippings. 

Nellie  Ryan  looked  up,  her  blue  eyes  still  smarting 
with  half-shed  tears.  "  No.  We  don't  want  to  buy 
anythin'  this  mornin',"  she  said  tartly.  "Miss  Day 
ain't  to  home." 

The  tall  figure  in  the  rusty  alpaca  dress  and  beaded 
cape  bore  a  large  green  pasteboard  box  firmly  tied 
with  brown  string,  a  circumstance  which  had  sug- 
gested the  girl's  words  of  dismissal. 

"  I  sh'd  hope  so ! "  commented  the  visitor,  with  dyna- 
mic emphasis.  "  I  sh'd  cert'nly  hope  she  ain't 
r'sponsible  fer  what  I'm  a-lookin'  at  in  this  here 
kitchen!" 

The  purple  roses  above  the  rim  of  the  dusty  black 
hat  vibrated  with  unspeakable  emotion  as  their  wearer 
surveyed  in  turn  the  disordered  cupboard;  the  sink, 
brimming  with  half -washed  dishes;  the  grease-be- 
spattered table;  the  floor  with  its  wandering  rivulets 
of  hardening  grease. 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  come  in  here  as  I  know  of!" 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     195 

snapped  Nellie  Ryan,  gathering  up  the  fragments  of 
the  brown  j  ar  and  tossing  them  into  the  coal-hod  with 
a  careless  crash.  "  I've  got  to  clean  up  this  nasty 
grease — bad  luck  to  it !  I've  burnt  me  arm  somethin' 
fierce !  I  guess  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  tell  your  busi- 
ness an'  go  on.  The'  ain't  no  room  in  this  kitchen 
f  er  two." 

"You  ain't  never  spoke  a  truer  word  'an  that,  an' 
you  never  will  ef  you  live  to  be  a  hunderd,"  the  lady 
with  the  purple  roses  enunciated  deliberately.  She 
had  set  her  green  pasteboard  box  down  on  the  floor 
with  a  decisive  thump,  and  unfastened  the  beaded  cape 
at  her  gaunt  throat.  "  I  s'pose  you  know  who  I  be," 
she  continued,  her  eyes  completing  another  searching 
tour  of  the  kitchen.  "  My !  It  '11  take  me  a  week  of 
stiddy  work  to  git  things  to  rights  agin." 

Nellie  Ryan  was  down  on  her  knees  scraping  up  the 
floor.  Her  pretty  face  was  flushed,  the  tendrils  of 
her  reddish  hair  curled  about  her  white  forehead  like 
little  flames.  "  I  don't  know  who  you  be,  an'  what's 
more  I  don't  care!"  she  said  tartly.  "I  wouldn't 
put  up  with  Queen  Victory  a-loiterin'  'round  my 
kitchen  to-day,  let  alone  a  trampin'  pedler ! " 


196     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  Imperdunce!  "  intoned  the  lady  in  black,  with  an 
upward  glance  of  almost  religious  fervour.  "My 
kitchen!  Did  you  ever!  My — kitchen!  I'm  Abby 
Whiton!  "  she  finished  majestically. 

"  I  suspicioned  as  much,"  said  Nellie  coolly. 

"An*  I'll  let  you  know  'at  I've  come  back  to  my 
place  to  stay!  "  Miss  Whiton  continued,  with  a  fine 
disregard  of  the  girl's  scornful  blue  eyes.  "  If  ever 
I  turned  my  back  on  my  plain  dooty,  I  done  it  the  day 
I  left  this  'ere  kitchen.  You've  prob'ly  done  yer 
best — I  c'n  see  with  half  an  eye  'at  ye'r  young  an' 
foolish.  But  you  might  as  well  pick  up  yer  traps 
an'  go  now.  I'll  take  a-holt  here  right  off ;  the'  ain't 
a  minute  to  lose,  I  s'd  say." 

"  Well,  I  never!  "  exclaimed  Nellie  Ryan.  She  had 
hastily  prepared  a  mixture  of  soda  and  boiling  water 
and  was  about  to  pour  it  upon  the  greasy  floor, 
when  Abby  Whiton's  compelling  hand  gripped  her 
arm. 

"  Don't  ye  know  no  better  'an  to  pour  hot  water  on 
that  fat,  ye  little  idjit?  It  '11  drive  it  int'  the  grain 
o'  the  wood  so  't  you'll  never  git  it  out  t'  yer  dyin' 
day!  Where's  the  starch-box?  You  want  to  put 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     197 

starch  on  it  first  off  to  draw  the  grease.  An'  my 
goodness!  I  see  you  ain't  put  yer  bread  in  yit. 
'Taint  fit  to  eat,  anyhow ;  I  c'n  see  that !  I  guess 
Miss  Cynthy  '11  be  mighty  glad  to  git  some  o'  my 
good  victuals  agin  after  your  messy  ways  of  doin' 
things ! " 

Nellie's  Irish  temper  flamed  out  of  bounds  at  this 
last  insult.  "  I  want  you  should  clear  out  of  this 
kitchen,  right  now ! "  she  cried.  "  This  is  my  place, 
an'  I'm  hired  to  stay  till  fall,  an'  what's  more  I'm 
a-goin'  to  do  it  f er  all  of  you  or  anybody !  So  there ! 
I  know  all  'bout  your  wonderful  cookin'.  Miss  Day 
like  to  ha'  died  eatin'  it.  She  likes  my  bread  an'  my 
cake  an'  my  pies  an'  the  way  I  broil  my  meats  an' 
every  thin'  I  do.  She's  said  so  more'n  a  hundred 
times.  She  said  she'd  never  eat  a  real  tasty,  relishin' 
meal  of  victuals  till  I  come  here.  So  there ! " 

Abby  Whiton  sank  down  in  her  chair,  a  curious 
dusky  pallour  stealing  over  her  gaunt  old  face. 
"Did— did  Miss  Cynthy  say  that?"  she  faltered. 
"  I  thought — I  thought  mebbe  she  was  a-missin'  me 
like  I'd  missed  her.  I — I  got  so  I  reelly  couldn't 
stan'  it.  Night  an'  day  I  was  a-frettin'  an' 


198     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

a-worryin'  'bout  her.  !An'  now  you  say  she  didn't 
relish  my  victuals." 

"  Of  course  she  didn't,"  asseverated  Nellie,  with  cruel 
satisfaction  in  her  enemy's  manifest  distress.  "  Why, 
anybody  could  tell  that  by  just  lookin'  at  her.  She's 
been  growin'  fat  sence  I  come." 

"Fa*/— Miss  Cynthy— growin'  fat!" 

"Yes,  an'  she's  took  off  her  black  clo'es,  an*  she's 
got  heaps  an'  heaps  of  lovely  dresses  up  in  her  closet, 
an'  the  house  is  all  fixed  up  as  han'some  as  a  picture — 
an'  every  bit  happened  sence  I  come!" 

"  She  didn't  know  where  I  was  goin' "  continued 
Abby  Whiton  in  a  dreary  monotone.  "  I  didn't  git 
a  chanct  to  see  her  when  we  come  to  part.  An'  thinks 
s'  I  she'd  prob'ly  like  to  git  me  back — fer  I  don't 
see," — her  eyes  wandered  dully  about  the  disordered 
kitchen, — "I  don't  see  how  she  c'n  git  along  with- 
out me — after  thirty  years,  an'  me  a-lovin'  her — 
a-lovin'  her  like " 

The  dry  old  voice  broke  into  unmistakable  sobs.  The 
gaunt  shoulders  heaved  dreadfully  under  the  rusty 
cape  with  its  arabesques  of  glittering  black  beads. 

Nellie  Ryan's  scornful  eyes  melted  into  surprised 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     199 

alarm,  then  into  quick  girlish  compassion.  "Why, 
don't  cry ! "  she  begged,  "  I  guess  Miss  Day " 

She  stopped  short,  with  a  little  embarrassed  laugh, 
for  her  mistress  had  opened  the  door,  and  stood  look- 
ing quietly  at  the  scene. 

Abby  Whiton  shook  herself  vigorously  free  from  the 
girl's  light,  pitying  touch.  "I  'xpect  you'll  think 
I'm  a  reg'lar  old  fool ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  effort 
after  one  of  her  decisive  sniffs  which  ended  disas- 
trously in  a  choking  sob.  "  But  I've  walked  more'n 
fifteen  miles  this  mornin'  to  git  here,  an*  when  it  come 
over  me  all  of  a  suddent  'at  Miss  Cynthy  didn't— 
want — me — no  more,  w'y  I  kind  of " 

"Abby!"  It  was  Miss  Cynthia's  voice,  and  it  was 
a  curious  blend  of  tears  and  laughter. 

The  woman  sprang  to  her  feet,  stared  for  one  brief, 
bewildered  minute  at  the  slender  little  figure  in  its 
dainty  summer  gown.  "Oh,  Miss  Cynthy!"  she 
cried.  All  the  faithful  love  of  thirty  toilsome  years, 
the  homesick  longing  of  thirty  lonely  days  vibrated 
in  the  harsh  old  voice.  Then  Abby  Whiton  stiffened 
herself  inexorably.  "She  says  you  didn't  relish  my 
cookin'." 


200     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Miss  Cynthia  put  her  arms  about  the  unresponsive 
figure.  "  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Abby ! "  she  said 
softly.  Then — she  kissed  Abby  Whiton  full  on  her 
wrinkled  cheek.  "I  never  knew  before  that  you — - 
loved  me,"  she  whispered. 


XIV 

THE  Puffer  twins  stood  in  their  mother's  presence 
with  a  serious,  almost  solemn  expression  on  their 
round,  freckled  faces. 

"  I  shan't  be  gone  a  minute  longer  than  I'm  'bliged 
to  be,"  Mrs.  Puffer  was  saying,  as  she  hastily  tied  her 
bonnet-strings  and  smoothed  out  the  somewhat  wrin- 
kled skirt  of  her  best  summer  dress.  She  was  a 
sufficiently  comely  figure  of  a  woman,  and  despite  the 
fact  that  most  of  her  gowns  bore  unmistakable  evi- 
dence of  her  chief  occupation  in  the  shape  of  dampish 
spots  in  the  front  of  the  skirt  and  a  generally  re- 
laxed appearance  of  the  bodice,  her  children  enthu- 
siastically regarded  her  as  not  only  the  wisest,  but 
the  most  beautiful  person  in  the  world. 

"Fve  fed  him  up  good,"  continued  Mrs.  Puffer 
briskly,  "  and  he  won't  be  hungry  for  at  least  two 
hours.  Now,  if  you'll  just  roll  him  slowly  up  and 
down  the  sidewalk  in  his  carriage,  an'  don't  get  him 

201 


202     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

all  waked  up  an'  fidgety  playing  with  him,  he'll 
prob'ly  drop  right  off  to  sleep  an'  stay  asleep  till  I 
come  home.  He's  the  best  baby  that  ever  lived — so 
he  was ! " 

Mrs.  Puffer  bestowed  a  parting  cuddle  and  pat  on 
her  youngest  as  she  tucked  him,  all  milky  and  com- 
placent, into  the  nest  of  pillows  in  his  peram- 
bulator. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  wheel  him,  'cause  I'm  the  oldest,"  an- 
nounced Edwina  importantly. 

"  You're  only  five  minutes  older  'an  me,  Ed  Puffer, 
an'  I'm  a  lot  taller,"  retorted  Harriet  indignantly. 
"  I  shall  wheel  him.  Mayn't  I,  ma  ?  " 

"You  may  wheel  him  up  the  street  as  far  as  the 
corner ;  then  Edwina  can  wheel  him  back,"  said  Mrs. 
Puffer,  hunting  absent-mindedly  for  her  gloves,  which 
she  seldom  had  use  for. 

"  I  shall  turn  the  carriage  'round,  anyway ;  it's 
awful  hard  to  turn  the  carriage  'round;  but  I  know 
how,"  said  Harriet  firmly. 

"  We'll  both  of  us  turn  it  'round,"  amended  Edwina, 
with  equal  firmness.  "  I'll  take  hold  of  the  front  when 
you're  wheeling,  an'  you  c'n  take  hold  of  the  back; 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     203 

then  I'll  take  hold  of  the  back  when  I'm  wheeling,  an* 
you  c'n " 

Mrs.  Puffer,  looking  worried  and  anxious,  inter- 
rupted this  careful  plan  of  the  coming  campaign  to 
warn  the  children  of  the  danger  of  tipping  the  car- 
riage over  into  the  gutter.  "  I  shan't  be  easy  a  single 
minute  while  I'm  gone,"  she  said  plaintively.  "  If  it 
wasn't  that  my  teeth  are  keeping  me  awake  nights 
with  aching  I  shouldn't  think  of  going.  Dear  me !  if 
you  should  get  to  quarrelling  over  the  carriage " 

"  We'll  be  careful,  ma ! "  repeated  the  twins  in  duti- 
ful chorus.  "We  won't  quarrel.  We'll  take  awful 
good  care  of  the  baby.  We'll  both  of  us  wheel  him, 
an'  both  of  us  turn  him  'round." 

Mrs.  Puffer  hurried  away  down  the  street,  after  see- 
ing the  twins  started  at  a  snail's  pace  for  the  corner, 
their  four  moist  pink  hands  firmly  grasping  the 
handle  of  the  perambulator. 

The  baby  was  apparently  sound  asleep  by  the  time 
the  corner  was  reached.  Edwina  peeped  under  the 
canopy  and  announced  the  fact  with  maternal  pride. 
They  turned  the  carriage  around  without  accident 
and  paced  solemnly  back  to  their  starting  point. 


204     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"It's  lots  of  fun,  don't  you  think  so,  Ed?"  asked 
Harriet  at  the  end  of  the  third  round. 

"  Uh-huh,"  assented  Edwina  doubtfully.  "  It  feels 
kind  of  funny  to  walk  so  slow,  though.  I  wonder  if 
it  would  wake  him  up  if  we  played  fire-engine,  real 
careful." 

The  baby  made  no  sign  when  the  carriage  began  to 
move  more  rapidly.  The  twins  were  now  trotting  at 
a  good  rate  of  speed,  their  stout  little  shoes  clattering 
briskly  on  the  stone  sidewalk. 

"  Sometimes  fire-horses  gallop,"  suggested  Harriet. 
"  I'll  gallop  the  carriage,  an'  you  be  the  fire  chief  an' 
run  awful  fast  in  front." 

This  suggestion  was  adopted  with  exhilarating  re- 
sults. The  baby  slept  soundly,  despite  the  jerky 
motion  imparted  to  his  vehicle  by  the  galloping  steed 
behind. 

"  Once  a  fire  engine  ran  into  a  fence,"  said  Edwina 
solemnly,  as  they  drew  up  panting  and  breathless 
after  ten  minutes  of  this  strenuous  exercise.  "You 
pretty  near  did,  too." 

"  Oh,  well,  's  long  's  I  didn't,  what's  the  use  in  talkin' 
about  it,"  rejoined  Harriet  carelessly.  "Anyway,  I 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     205 

guess  we'd  better  change  to  a  f  un'ral  till  we  get  rested. 
I'll  run  the  hearse  an'  you  be  the  mourners  comin' 
along  behind." 

This  proved  restful,  but  not  exciting.  "  Now  let's 
play  we're  a  milk-wagon,"  suggested  Edwina.  "  I'll 
be  the  milkman,  an'  yoiube  the  milkman's  horse.  We'll 
stop  at  every  house  an'  you  c'n  stamp  your  feet  as 
if  the  flies  was  bitin',  an'  I'll  yell  'whoa'  like  Mr. 
Potts  does,  while  I  p'tend  to  carry  in  the  milk." 

This  proceeding  was  made  strikingly  realistic  by 
Harriet's  later  idea,  which  involved  a  removal  of  the 
baby's  socks  to  use  for  pint  measures. 

"  I'm  'f  raid  he'll  take  cold  with  his  b'essed  little  pink 
tootsy-wootsies  all  bare,"  objected  Edwina,  with  a 
fine  imitation  of  her  mother's  tone  and  manner. 

"  No,  he  won't,  either,"  contradicted  Harriet  as  she 
pulled  off  the  socks.  "  I'll  cuddle  'em  up — so — in  his 
pinning-blanket.  He's  all  hot  an'  sticky  anyway. 
If  he  was  my  baby  I'd  let  him  cool  off." 

"  He  isn't  your  baby." 

"  Yes,  he  is,  too.  He's  my  brother,  an'  he's  a  baby, 
so  'course  he's  my  baby.  I'm  goin'  to  take  off  this 
hot  old  blanket  this  minute  an'  make  him  comf'table." 


206     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  He's  my  brother  jus'  's  much  as  he  is  yours,  an'  I 
say  he's  got  to  have  that  blanket  on.  I  guess  ma 
knows  how  to  fix  him." 

"  Lots  an'  lots  of  times  she  takes  off  his  blankets ;  she 
says  '  b'ess  his  little  heart,  he's  too  warm,  so  him  was ! ' 
You  know  she  does,  Ed  Puffer.  Now  I'll  tell  what 
we'll  do.  I'll  p'tend  I'm  the  mother,  an'  you  c'n 
p'tend  you're  the  father — all  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon, an'. then  you'll  have  to  do  jus'  's  I  say." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  the  father,  't  isn't  any  fun," 
said  Edwina,  sulkily  kicking  the  wheel  of  the  carriage. 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  p'tend;  I'll  p'tend  I'm  the 
gran'ma,  an'  I  sh'll  say,  *  I'm  s'prised  at  you,  daugh- 
ter, for  takin'  off  that  blanket  in  this  wind.  I  sh'll 
put  it  right  back,'. an'  don't  you  say  a  word  till  I'm 
gone  home — ma  never  does,  when  Gran'ma  Puffer  says 
things  like  that." 

"  All  right ;  but  when  you  goin'  home  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  goin'  at  all.  I'm  goin'  to  make  my  home 
with  you,  same  's  Susie  Winter's  gran'ma  does,"  said 
Edwina  sweetly. 

"I  shan't  play  mother  an'  gran'ma  'nother  single 
minute,"  declared  Harriet  crossly,  after  Edwina  had 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     207 

rigorously  enforced  her  old-fashioned  ideas  of  baby- 
tending  to  the  extent  of  putting  on  the  socks  again. 
"You've  gone  and  waked  him  up  now,  an'  you'll 
just  see  'at  he'll  cry  in  about  five  minutes." 

"  No,  he  won't,  b'ess  him ! "  giggled  Edwina.  "  Just 
look  at  him  laugh,  Harry ;  ain't  he  too  cunnin'  ?  " 

The  Puffer  baby's  blue  eyes  were  very  wide  open  by 
this  time,  his  pink  fists  struggled  powerfully  with  his 
blankets,  while  his  small,  indeterminate  features 
writhed  and  reddened  ominously. 

"Let's  wheel  him  fast!"  ordered  Harriet,  with  an 
apprehension  born  of  experience.  "There!  What 
did  I  tell  you?" 

The  baby  was  growing  suspicious  and  indignant,  as 
his  wrathful  roars  plainly  indicated.  "  Jounce  him, 
Ed, — jounce  him  hard  in  front,  an'  pound  his  rattle- 
box  on  the  edge  of  the  carriage;  I'll  run  awful 
fast!" 

A  slight  cessation  of  the  infantile  disapproval  evi- 
denced the  infantile  surprise,  but  the  slow  process  of 
turning  around  intervened,  with  disastrous  results. 
Harriet's  red  lips  set  themselves  in  firm  lines.  "Are 
your  hands  clean,  Ed?  "  she  demanded  resourcefully. 


208     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"Pretty  clean,  I  guess." 

"Put  your  finger  in  his  mouth,  then;  maybe  that 
'11  stop  him." 

But  it  didn't.  The  situation  was  growing  serious. 
"  If  I  could  lift  him  out,"  murmured  Harriet  doubt- 
fully, "  maybe  he'd  stop." 

"  Don't  you  das' ! "  cried  Edwina. 

"Do  you  das'  me,  Ed  Puffer?" 

"  No,  I  don't  das'  you ;  I  shouldn't  das'  to  das'  you, 
'cause  you'd  do  it  right  off.  But  you  mustn't!  " 

"  Who  said  so?  Ma  didn't  say  I  mustn't  take  him 
out." 

"  She  meant  it ;  you  know  she  did." 

"  She  thought  he  wouldn't  cry,  an'  he's  cryin'." 

There  was  no  denying  this  poignant  fact.  The  two 
little  girls  sang,  jounced,  coaxed,  patted,  and  pleaded 
in  vain.  The  Puffer  baby  had  mistaken  the  period 
of  his  nap  for  a  much  longer  one.  He  had  appar- 
ently quite  forgotten  his  late  milky  and  complacent 
condition. 

"Poor  little  sing,  he  finks  he's  hungry,"  said  Ed- 
wina pityingly. 

"  An'  it's  just  exactly  as  bad  for  us  as  if  he  really 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     209 

was,"  agreed  Harriet  gloomily.  "  He's  getting  pur- 
ple in  the  face,  now." 

Edwina  burst  into  discouraged  tears.  "I  wish  ma 
would  come,"  she  wailed.  "  I'm  awful  scared  when  he 
yells  like  that." 

"  I'm  not  scared,"  said  Harriet  stoutly,  "  but  he's 
makin'  such  a  ter'ble  noise  that  we've  gotta  do  some- 
thin'."  They  had  reached  the  corner  of  maternal 
designation  once  more,  and  instead  of  turning  around 
she  pushed  the  carriage  determinedly  into  the  next 
street. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ? "  demanded  Edwina,  with  wide 
eyes ;  "  ma  said " 

"  I'm  goin'  to  take  him  to  Miss  Cynthy's  house,"  said 
Harriet  doggedly.  "  She  likes  dolls  most  as  much 
as  we  do,  an'  I  guess  she'll  like  babies,  too.  Anyway, 
I'm  goin'." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  roses 
on  her  front  piazza.  She  was  dressed  in  a  crisp,  lace- 
trimmed  muslin  gown,  and  one  of  the  newest  maga- 
zines lay  open  in  her  lap.  She  was  experiencing  the 
exhilarating  satisfaction  peculiar  to  one  who  has  ad- 
ventured herself  on  a  perilous  enterprise  and  won  out. 


210     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Nellie  Ryan  was  again  her  smiling  self,  and  the  re- 
pentant William,  after  a  suitable  period  devoted  to 
the  consumption  of  humble-pie,  was  frequenting  the 
back  porch  of  the  Breyfogle  mansion  as  before. 

Abby  Whiton  watched  them  there  of  an  evening  with 
grim  amusement.  "No  wonder  her  victuals  air 
tasty,"  she  had  commented;  "they'd  ought  to  be;  '£ 
you  could  see  the  butter  she  dashes  in.  But  if  you 
c'n  stan'  it  I  s'pose  I  kin.  I'll  bet  I'll  beat  her  at  her 
Own  game  before  fall.  She  ain't  willin'  to  whirl  in 
an'  work  the  way  I  be.  My  las'  sponge-cake  beat 
hers  all  holler.  Anyway,  it's  lucky  I  come  jus'  as  I 
did;  her  min'  's  so  took  up  with  sparkin'  she  ain't 
good  fer  much;  she  f ergot  to  rense  the  dishes  las' 
night.  I  tell  her  she  wants  to  keep  a  tight  rein  over 
that  young  man  of  hern,  an'  not  be  too  awful  mushy 
an'  lovin'." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  dreamily  comparing  the  facts  of 
this  humble  romance  of  real  life  with  the  highly  col- 
oured love-story  in  the  magazine  when  the  gate  clicked 
and  a  baby-carriage  apparently  propelled  by  unseen 
hands  bumped  noisily  in  upon  the  freshly  raked 
jgravel.  The  occupant  of  the  carriage  had  evidently 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     211 

reached  the  point  when  the  feelings  become  unutter- 
able, for  his  strident  roars  were  frequently  inter- 
rupted by  ominous  pauses. 

"  You'd  better  take  him  out,  quick ! "  advised  Harriet 
Puffer  with  a  dramatic  gesture  of  despair.  "  He's 
pretty  near  choked  with  cryin',  I  guess." 

"Yes,  do  please  take  him  out!"  wailed  Edwina. 
"  He's  got  all  mixed  up  in  his  clo'es,  an'  I  can't  unmix 
him ;  the  more  I  try  the  worse  he  gets." 

"  Where  is  your  mother?  "  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  peep- 
ing in  at  the  wrathful  infant  with  an  air  of  eager 
curiosity. 

"  She's  gone  to  the  dentist's,"  explained  Harriet. 
"  She  said  he  wouldn't  wake  up,  an'  I  don't  b'lieve  he 
would  've  'f  Ed  hadn't  kep'  a-coverin'  him  up  every 
time  I  uncovered  him.  She  was  the  gran'ma  an'  I 
was  the  mother." 

Miss  Cynthia  timidly  laid  hold  upon  the  writhing 
mass  of  flannels  and  extricated  it  from  the  carriage. 
The  roars  suddenly  ceased. 

"I  guess  he  thinks  your  ma,"  observed  Edwina  in- 
telligently. 

"  Then  he'll  yell  again  in  a  minute  when  he  finds  out 


212     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

you  ain't,"  opined  Harriet  darkly.  "  He  knows  an 
awful  lot  for  three  months  old." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  untangling  the  small,  fat  body 
from  its  encircling  blankets.  Her  face  was  flushed; 
her  blue  eyes  shone ;  she  breathed  quickly.  "  I 
always  wanted  to  take  care  of  a  baby  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,"  she  said. 

"  You  c'n  have  him  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  just 
as  well  as  not,"  said  Harriet  generously.  "  We  don't 
care,  do  we,  Ed?  Let's  us  go  an'  play  tag  while  she 
takes  care  of  him." 

"  Would  you  like  to  take  care  of  him?  "  inquired  Ed- 
wina,  with  anxious  politeness.  "  You  c'n  p'tend  he's 
your  truly  baby,  if  you  want  to." 

"  Go  and  play  tag,  if  you  like,"  Miss  Cynthia  told 
them  hastily.  She  was  cuddling  the  small,  warm  body 
in  her  thin  arms,  and  the  baby  was  blindly  nosing  her 
soft  neck  with  little  whimpering  cries. 

"  He  isn't  a  bit  hungry,"  called  Harriet  over  her 
shoulder,  as  she  ran  joyously  away.  "I  guess  you 
c'n  get  him  to  sleep  bimeby." 

Left  to  herself,  Miss  Cynthia  stared  at  her  treasure- 
trove  with  wide  blue  eyes.  "Oh,  you  little  duck, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     213 

you !  "  she  murmured  delightedly,  as  she  felt  his  round 
arms  through  the  thin  muslin  of  his  dress.  The  tiny 
fluttering  hands  with  a  row  of  dimples  across  the  back 
next  claimed  her  attention.  Then  with  shame-faced 
blushes  she  explored  his  flannel  skirts  in  search  of 
two  active  pink  feet.  The  mottled  rose  of  his  cheeks, 
the  fuzz  of  downy  hair  in  his  fat  neck,  the  queer,  un- 
certain blue  of  his  eyes — she  examined  them  all  with 
charmed  incredulity.  Never  before  had  she  had  un- 
disputed possession  of  a  baby.  It  would  probably 
never  happen  again.  She  drew  the  blankets  awk- 
wardly about  the  soft  little  body  and  began  to  sway 
gently  back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  as  she  remembered 
to  have  seen  mothers  do.  After  a  while  she  even  ven- 
tured to  pat  the  little  back  with  light,  caressing 
strokes. 

The  green,  shaded  yard  was  very  still.  The  sun- 
shine sifted  down  through  the  tall  elms  with  an  oc- 
casional drowsy  note  from  a  nesting  phoebe  bird. 
Miss  Cynthia  glanced  down  at  the  baby  held  close 
against  her  breast ;  his  eyes  were  closed,  a  faint  smile 
fluttered  about  his  moist,  pink  mouth. 

"  Just  suppose — "  whispered  Miss  Cynthia  to  herself. 


THE  long,  sweetly  monotonous  procession  of  summer 
days  were  all  folded  softly  into  the  past,  and  Miss 
Cynthia,  with  a  little  shock  of  painful  surprise,  faced 
autumn.  It  had  been  the  pleasantest  summer  she 
ever  remembered,  despite  the  hidden  current  of  fear 
which  murmured  hollowly  beneath  the  shallow  crust 
of  everyday  living.  There  had  been  teas  and  picnics 
and  occasional  drives  behind  George  Blossom's  big 
brown  horse,  and  the  old  house  had  echoed  as  never 
before  to  the  sound  of  young  feet  and  young  voices. 
More  than  once,  after  the  auspicious  occasion  of  his 
first  visit,  did  Miss  Cynthia  cuddle  and  pet  the  Puffer 
baby  in  motherful  fashion,  and  the  twins  had  estab- 
lished a  permanent  playhouse  under  the  apple  tree 
in  the  back  yard. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  fallen  into  the  pleasant  habit 
of  bringing  the  minister's  socks  over  onto  Miss  Cyn- 
thia's piazza  to  mend,  and  the  two  women  talked 
freely  of  things  seen  and  unseen  in  a  way  which  might 

214 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     215 

have  scandalised  the  orthodox  pastor  could  he  have 
heard  it.  Still  Miss  Cynthia  had  not  told  the  min- 
ister's wife  her  terrible  little  secret.  She  had  told 
no  one.  Some  fine  instinct  of  life  had  laid  the  finger 
of  silence  upon  her  lips. 

On  a  certain  chill  morning  in  late  September,  when 
the  rain  fell  against  the  window  panes  with  a  hint  of 
approaching  winter  in  its  cold,  slanting  drizzle,  she 
opened  her  Bible  to  the  ninety-first  Psalm,  and  found 
a  tremulous  comfort.  Henceforth,  she  longed  fever- 
ishly to  find  "the  secret  place"  of  safety,  and  knew 
not  that  it  was  already  "nearer  than  breathing." 

By  the  time  the  last  leaf  had  fallen  she  had  gotten 
into  the  way  of  taking  long,  solitary  walks  which  led 
her  out  and  away  from  the  prying  eyes  behind  the 
village  windows.  Her  own  confused  and  struggling 
thoughts  were  uneasy  companions;  yet  it  was  some- 
thing gained  to  be  able  to  endure  them  in  solitude. 
Miss  Cynthia  was  no  longer  afraid  of  her  own  think- 
ing, and  out  from  the  hidden  under-current  of  fear 
a  strong,  brave  hope  lifted  itself  now  and  again. 
She  was  wrestling,  albeit  weakly,  with  the  angel  of 
deliverance;  but  as  yet  she  had  caught  no  glimpse  of 


216     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

his  veiled  face.  And  the  sentient  body  of  her 
changed  subtly  with  the  changing  life,  as  it  must, 
always  and  inevitably. 

Malvina  Bennett,  proud  and  busy  with  fashioning 
new  gowns  of  many  colours  for  Miss  Cynthia,  de- 
clared she  could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes.  "  Every 
one  of  your  measures  is  changed  f'om  last  spring," 
announced  the  little  dressmaker  importantly.  "  'Taint 
as  'o  you'd  reely  fleshed  up, — though  I  guess  you  hev 
gained  some;  but  it's  a  kind  of  a  general  diff'runce. 
I  never  see  nothin'  like  it  in  all  my  'xperience 
a-sewin'." 

Miss  Bennett  had  not  frequently  been  called  upon 
to  fit  garments  upon  a  growing  soul;  but  she  dimly 
groped  after  the  astonishing  fact  as  she  fashioned  a 
gown  of  glowing  oak-leaf  red,  fur-bordered  against 
the  cold,  which  Miss  Cynthia  had  chosen  for  one  of 
her  winter  gowns.  "A  year  ago,"  said  Miss  Bennett 
meditatively,  "I  sh'd  'a'  thought  you  was  actually 
a-takin'  leave  of  your  senses  to  git  a  dress  like  this ; 
but  now  " — she  paused  to  survey  the  faintly  smiling 
face  which  was  bent  toward  her — "now  it  somehow 
seems  to  be  jest  the  thing." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     217 

Miss  Cynthia,  wearing  the  gown  of  oak-leaf  red,  and 
seeming  in  it  an  integral  part  of  the  clear,  frosty 
October  day,  was  walking  briskly  on  an  upland  road, 
when  history  repeated  itself,  as  it  is  wont  to  do.  The 
intermittent  creak  and  rattle  of  wagon  wheels  reached 
her  from  beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Later  an  in- 
quisitive collie  dashed  forward  to  sniff  at  her  daintily 
gathered  skirts ;  then  George  Blossom,  perched  on  the 
high  seat  of  his  wagon,  drew  up  his  clumsy-footed 
horse  at  sight  of  the  little  figure  at  the  road-side. 
His  gloomy  face  brightened  as  he  jumped  down  over 
the  muddy  wheel. 

"Nice  day  for  a  walk,  isn't  it,  Miss  Day?"  he  be- 
gan. "  What  do  you  say  to  riding  home  with  me,  if 
you're  tired  ?  "  Then  he  burst  into  a  short  laugh. 
"Do  you  remember  how  I  met  you  hereabouts  last 
spring?  Gracious!  it  seems  more  like  years  than 
months  to  me." 

"  It  does  seem  a  long  while,"  agreed  Miss  Cynthia. 
She  paled  a  little  as  she  met  the  young  man's  honest 
gray  eyes.  "  It  really  isn't  very  long,  though — only 
half  a  year." 

"  A  lot  can  happen  in  half  a  year,"  he  said,  scowling 


218     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

discontentedly.  "  A  fellow  can  learn  that  he's  a  big 
fool  for  his  pains,  for  one  thing.  I've  just  con- 
tracted to  paint  three  barns  for  Mr.  James  Scott," 
he  went  on,  with  a  deepening  of  the  wrinkle  between 
his  young  eyes.  "  I'm  such  a  conscientious  workman 
that  folks  value  my  services  highly — when  it  comes 
to  painting  a  barn  red." 

Miss  Cynthia  listened  with  entire  understanding.  "  I 
wonder,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "if  you  would  care 
to  borrow  the  money  from  me  to  go  away  for  a  year 
of  study.  I  have — a — a  sum,  which  I  ought  to  in- 
vest. It  is,  in  fact,  lying  idle.  I  should  be  glad 
to " 

"Should  you?"  cried  George  Blossom.  His  face 
had  become  suddenly  illuminated.  "Oh,  I  do  want 

to  go  away.  I  want "  He  stopped  short  and 

turned  roughly  to  the  brown  horse,  who  was  manifest- 
ing certain  crude  signs  of  animal  impatience  with  the 
vagaries  of  his  master. 

"You'd  better  start  at  once,  I  should  say,"  Miss 
Cynthia  went  on,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  If  you 
will  decide  just  what  course  you  would  like  to  take 
up,  and " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     219 

"  I  know  exactly  what  I  want  to  do,"  said  the  young 
fellow  under  his  breath.  "  But "  His  face  red- 
dened slowly.  "  I  can't  give  you  any  sort  of  security. 
I  just  couldn't  ask  father  to — to  mortgage  the  farm. 
They  have  worked  so  hard,  and " 

"You  will  give  me  your  personal  note,  of  course," 
Miss  Cynthia  said  promptly.  "  It  is  quite  customary, 
you  know,  and  I  shall  consider  it  ample  security." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  that  sort  of  business," 
he  confessed  shyly.  "But  I  know  I  can  pay  every 
cent  of  it  back.  I  know Thank  you,"  he  fin- 
ished abruptly.  "I  will  do  it."  He  drew  a  deep 
breath.  "  I  can  turn  over  the  contract  for  those 
barns  to  Bill  Cartright;  I  guess  he's  going  to  need 
all  he  c'n  make." 

Miss  Cynthia  laughed  happily.  "  He  and  Nellie  are 
to  be  married  next  week,"  she  said.  "  Abby  Whiton 
has  pieced  them  two  quilts  already.  She  proposes 
to  do  her  full  duty  by  Nellie." 

"  Bill  had  a  fool  notion  at  one  time  that  he  was  a 
notch  above  the  girl!"  observed  George  Blossom, 
with  a  faint-hearted  echo  of  Miss  Cynthia's  laugh. 
"  I  told  him  he  was  an  ass — just  a  plain  ass.  In  a 


220     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

country  place  like  this  it's  too  darned  silly  to  be 
always  going  on  about  position  and — and  'culture* 
I've  got  so  I  hate  that  word  *  culture ' !  What's  '  cul- 
ture,'' I'd  like  to  know,  when  it  comes  to " 

The  young  fellow  set  his  white  teeth  strongly;  his 
eyes  glowed  with  love  and  fury.  "  I  suppose  you 
think  I'm  a  regular  chump,"  he  said  roughly. 
"She  does,  anyhow;  she  as  much  as  told  me  so  this 
afternoon.  Well,  maybe  I'll  find  I  c'n  afford  to  for- 
get her." 

Miss  Cynthia  watched  him  with  a  sigh  as  he  rattled 
away  down  the  long  slope,  behind  the  pounding  feet 
of  the  clumsy  brown  horse.  "He  will  forget,"  she 
murmured ;  "  but  she  will  remember." 

She  rested  for  a  while  beside  the  gray  stone  wall,  her 
richly  coloured  gown  making  a  gorgeous  splash  of 
colour,  in  deep  accord  with  the  browns  and  russets  of 
the  sober  landscape.  It  was  very  still  on  the  lonely 
hill-top ;  all  the  chirping  and  singing  of  summer  had 
ceased;  three  or  four  silent  crows  wheeled  sombrely 
athwart  the  cold  blue  of  the  sky;  the  yellow  leaves 
dropped  noiselessly  one  by  one,  from  the  wide- 
branched  butternuts  that  fringed  the  road. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     221 

Miss  Cynthia  had  fallen  into  a  reverie  so  absorbed 
and  engrossing  that  she  did  not  hear  the  light  foot- 
falls of  the  girl  who  was  coming  down  the  road,  a 
scarlet  tarn  poised  jauntily  on  her  dark,  curling  hair, 
her  trim  figure  alert  and  self-conscious  in  its  tightly- 
fitting  jacket. 

She  paused  to  greet  Miss  Cynthia  with  a  little  cry 
of  surprise  and  pleasure.  The  two  had  established 
a  friendship  of  a  tentative,  unsubstantial  nature  since 
the  day  when  Rosalie  Scott  discovered  the  neglected 
Breyfogle  mahogany  in  Miss  Cynthia's  attic.  On 
her  part  the  girl  had  never  ceased  to  derive  a  girl- 
ishly arrogant  amusement  from  her  contemplation  of 
Miss  Cynthia's  elderly  fads,  as  she  chose  to  term  them. 
This  attitude,  while  it  put  the  older  woman  slightly 
on  the  defensive,  was  not  wholly  without  its  reflection 
in  Miss  Cynthia's  mind.  She  was  not,  as  has  been 
intimated,  a  very  astute  little  person,  yet  she  found 
in  Rosalie  Scott's  disdainful  attitude  toward  the  com- 
munity at  large  and  herself  in  particular,  matter  for 
a  kindly  pity  and  regret  which  would  have  thoroughly 
amazed  the  young  person  in  question  could  she  have 
guessed  it. 


222     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"What  a  lovely  dress!"  began  the  girl,  with  a 
pretty  air  of  envy.  "Do  you  know  you  looked  ex- 
actly like  a  spirit  of  autumn,  with  your  pale,  spirit- 
uelle  face  and  still  eyes  when  I  came  upon  you." 

She  blushed  with  pleasure  at  the  sound  of  her  own 
words.  "  I  have  been  reading  Keats'  '  Ode  to  Autumn  ' 
this  afternoon,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  self-con- 
scious sigh.  "  One  ought  always  to  read  it  in  Octo- 
ber, I  think;  it  is  so  exquisitely  beautiful!  You 
know  it,  of  course." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  "  I  never  cared  much  for 
poetry." 

"  You  don't  ?  "  exclaimed  the  girl ;  "  what  a  pity ! " 

She  moved  her  slim  shoulders  ever  so  slightly  as  she 
continued  her  studiedly  careless  examination  of  Miss 
Cynthia's  red  gown.  "I  have  always  loved  poetry. 
I  write  it  myself  sometimes.  I  simply  can't  help  it." 

"Do  you?"  said  Miss  Cynthia  absent-mindedly. 
,  "How  very  nice."  She  was  thinking  of  the  look  in 
George  Blossom's  boyish  eyes  when  he  had  said 
"Maybe  I  c'n  afford  to  forget  her." 

She  turned  to  look  carefully  at  the  girl's  pretty  face, 
the  Breyfogle  expression,  with  which  Abby  Whiton 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     223 

was  growing  respectfully  familiar,  sharpening  her 
indeterminate  little  mouth  and  childish  blue  eyes.  "  It 
must  be  very  pleasant  to  be  so  different  from  ordi- 
nary folks,"  she  finished  deliberately. 

The  girl  bit  her  lip.  "I  believe  you're  trying  to 
snub  me,  too,"  she  said  sulkily.  "  Pa  does,  some- 
times ;  and  to-day  that  impertinent  workman — I  know 
you  like  him;  but  he  is  impertinent — he  said  horrid 

things  to  me  about  poetry  and — and I  can't 

bear  him  anyhow.  He  hasn't  a  particle  of  real  cul- 
ture!" 

"Perhaps  he'll  manage  to  acquire  more  than  you 
have,  before  you  see  him  again,"  Miss  Cynthia  said 
cruelly.  "He's  going  away  this  week  to  study." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you're  mistaken;  he's  just  been  hired 
to  paint  father's  barns.  I'll  be  bored  to  death  seeing 
him  around  with  his  horrid  sticky  brushes  and  things. 
I  detest  the  smell  of  paint !  "  And  the  girl  laughed, 
a  thought  too  shrilly. 

Miss  Cynthia  made  no  comment  on  this  speech.  She 
was  thinking  that  perhaps  George  Blossom  was  right 
about  affording  to  forget  this  girl.  One  could  afford 
to  forget  some  people  and  some  things.  It  was  good 


224     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

to  forget — to  be  able  to  laugh  at  vague,  haunting 
memories.  Her  blue  eyes  shone  suddenly  keen  and 
cold  as  the  autumn  sky,  athwart  which  the  sombre 
crows  were  flapping  heavily. 

"I  can  assure  you  that  you  will  not  be  bothered 
with  seeing  George  Blossom  around  any  more,"  she 
said  briskly.  "I  talked  with  him  myself  this  after- 
noon, and  he  has  decided  to  go  away  at  once.  He 
may  never  come  back  here  to  stay.  I  think  the 
chances  are  that  he  will  not.  There  are  other  places 
which  will  give  him  a  better  start  in  life  than  Innis- 
field.  I  shall  certainly  advise  him — not  to  return." 

She  stopped  short  to  observe  the  sudden  eclipse  which 
had  fallen  on  Rosalie's  rich  beauty.  The  girl's  warm 
colour  had  gradually  receded,  leaving  her  pallid  and 
pinched-looking.  Her  hands  moved  aimlessly  at  her 
side;  her  great  dark  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  a 
frightened,  appealing  look  upon  Miss  Cynthia's 

face. 

» 

"I  know  you  don't  like  me,"  she  faltered  at  last. 
"You  think  I'm  heartless  and  horrid,  and  that's  why 
you "  She  threw  up  her  delicate  head  with  a  de- 
fiant laugh,  while  the  rich  bloom  flashed  back  into 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     225 

lips  and  cheeks  and  shone  in  her  angry  eyes.  "  Do 
you  suppose  I  care  what  he  does?  Do  you  think  for 
a  minute  that  I  care?  " 

"You  do  care,  child,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  softly. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear !  don't  lie  to  your  own  heart. 
Don't,  I  beg  of  you.  Listen 

The  girl  had  turned  her  head  aside,  with  an  obstinate 
lifting  of  her  slim  shoulders. 

"  Once  I  had  a  lover,"  Miss  Cynthia  went  on  hur- 
riedly. "  No,  don't  laugh  at  me,  child ;  he  loved  me 
dearly.  He  was  poorer  than  I,  and  lived  in  a  shabby 
little  house  at  the  edge  of  the  village.  It  wasn't 
altogether  my  fault,  but  I — I  told  him  I  could  never 
marry  him,  that  he  must  go  away.  And  he  did. 
That  was  all." 

"What  do  you  mean?"     The  girl  asked  stupidly. 

"  I  mean  just  that.  He  went  away.  He  forgot. 
But  I  didn't  forget;  and  the  years  have  been  long 
and  empty;  and  now " 

"And  now?" 

"  And  now — it  is — growing  late."  Miss  Cynthia's 
pale  lips  just  formed  the  words.  Her  hand  stole  un- 
consciously to  the  breast  of  her  crimson  gown. 


226     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I'm  going  home,"  said  Rosalie  Scott,  after  a  long 
silence.  She  stooped  impulsively  and  kissed  Miss 
Cynthia's  pale  cheek.  "  If  you  will  come  home  with 
me  I'll  drive  you  into  town.  You  look  tired." 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head.  "  I  am — not — tired," 
she  said.  "Good-bye." 

She  wanted  to  be  alone.  To  have  unearthed  this 
mute,  dead  thing  before  the  girl's  curious  eyes  was  a 
task  that  she  had  hardly  brought  herself  to.  The 
reburial  at  least  must  be  private.  It  should  also 
be  final,  she  told  herself. 

At  an  angle  of  the  road,  where  the  russet  woods 
merged  into  cultivated  fields,  a  solitary  figure  was 
standing,  looking  off  over  the  village  which  dotted 
the  undulating  meadows  on  either  side  of  the  narrow, 
twisted  river.  Miss  Cynthia,  her  short-sighted  eyes 
misty  with  pain,  passed  the  wayfarer  without  a 
glance. 

The  man  turned  sharply  at  the  approach  of  the 
little  figure  in  its  gay  gown,  followed  it  with  a  specu- 
lative gleam  of  something  like  amusement  in  his 
dark  eyes,  and  finally  overtook  it  with  a  few  long 
strides. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     227 

"You'll  think  I'm  always  turning  up  at  odd  mo- 
ments, like  a  Jack-in-the-box,"  he  said  easily. 

Miss  Cynthia  stared  at  him  wordlessly.  "Why 
have  you  come?  "  she  said  at  last.  She  did  not  smile 
at  him  as  before,  and  he  was  unreasonably  hurt  be- 
cause she  did  not. 

"  I  came  to  Innisfield  to  see  you,"  he  told  her  directly. 
"  It  struck  me  that  our  talk  together  was — well,  it 
was  unsatisfactory — to  me,  at  least.  I  kept  going 
over  what  you  had  said  after  I  went  away — I  had 
only  a  few  minutes  to  spend  that  day,  you  remember, 
and " 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  she  said  vaguely.  "  So  many 
things  have  happened  since.  But  it  was  very  good 
of  you,  Mr.  Blake,  to  come  and  see  me.  I  am  sorry 
I  was  not  at  home."  She  was  looking  at  him  quietly 
and  observantly,  as  at  a  stranger. 

• 

"  I  had  almost  lost  sight  of  the  old  days — I  believe 
I  told  you  so,"  he  went  on  hurriedly ;  "  but  seeing  you 
that  day  somehow  brought  it  all  back.  I  have 
thought  of  it  and  of  you  a  lot,  since."  His  eyes,  so 
like  those  of  the  boy  she  remembered,  were  searching 
her  face. 


228     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"And  you  found  it  very  amusing — you  laughed  at 
it  all,  I  hope?  "  Miss  Cynthia  hardly  knew  her  own 
voice. 

"  No,  by  George !  I  did  not,"  he  exclaimed  impetu- 
ously. "  For  one  thing,  I  remembered  altogether  too 
well  the  day  I  left  Innisfield.  It  was  in  the  morning 
at  five  o'clock — a  cold,  drizzly  beast  of  a  day,  and  I 
was  just  as  cold  and  pinched  and  forlorn  as  the 
weather.  You  never  guessed  it,  but  I  stood  under 
your  window  and  cried  like  a  baby  before  I  heard  the 
stage-horn  tooting  and  knew  that  I  must  go." 

"  I'm  sorry  it  happened  so,"  Miss  Cynthia  said  drear- 
ily. "  I  thought  I  couldn't  help  it,  then." 

"After  that,"  went  on  the  man,  with  a  reminiscent 
shrug,  "I  determined  to  forget  you.  And  I  was  so 
busy  finding  enough  to  eat  that  I  actually  succeeded 
after  a  while.  It  took  a  long  time,  though." 

His  last  words  deepened  the  look  of  determination 
in  Miss  Cynthia's  face.  "  I  think,"  she  said  clearly, 
'*  that  I  should  like  to  say  two  or  three  things ;  then, 
if  you  please,  we'll  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 

His  eyes  begged  her  to  go  on. 

"It  all  happened  so  very  long  ago,"  Miss  Cynthia 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     229 

said,  choosing  her  words  deliberately,  "  that  I  agree 
with  you  it  ought  to  be  forgotten.  But  I've  always 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  know  I  did  wrong,  and  that 
I  am  ashamed  and  sorry.  I  didn't — understand — 
then,  what  I  was  doing.  If  you  will  forgive  me — 
I  shall  be  happier,  I  think.  And — yes,  that  is 
all." 

"  You  are  not  changed,"  he  murmured  wonderingly, 
"  you  are  not  changed." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  air 

of  gentle  finality.  "I  am  changed — you  are 
changed — everything  is  changed.  It  is  quite  im- 
possible to  go  back  to  the  old  days." 

Her  blue  eyes  were  calm  and  untroubled ;  they  wore 
the  curiously  far-away  look  which  he  remembered  to 
have  seen  in  them  before. 

His  keen,  clever  face  had  grown  grave  and  anxious. 
"  I  never  thought  I  should  ask  a  woman  for  her  friend- 
ship," he  said  at  last.  "I've  never  cared  much  for 
women.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  I've  never  been 
thrown  with  them  much,  except  in  a  professional  way. 
My  mother  died  ten  years  ago.  Since  then  I've  been 
too  busy  to  go  into  society."  He  paused  to  smile 


230     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

doubtfully  to  himself.  "But  I  should  like  it  if  you 
will  let  me  be  your  friend — if  you  will  be  my  friend. 
I  shan't  be  able  to  see  you  often ;  but  I  can  write — if 
you  will  allow  me.  Will  you?" 

Miss  Cynthia  hesitated  in  silence. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  my  work  to-night,"  he  went  on., 
his  eyes  upon  her  face.  "I  will  write  to  you  to- 
morrow. My  letters  may  not  interest  you,  but  I 
will  do  my  best." 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  up,  her  face  touched  with  pa- 
thetic youth  and  beauty  in  its  sudden  bloom  of  antici- 
pation. "  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  letters,"  she 
said  simply.  "I  have  never  had  many;  there  has 
never  been  anybody  to  write  to  me.  Sometimes  I 
watch  the  postman  of  a  morning  and  wish  he  would 
bring  me  a  letter.  But  he  scarcely  ever  does.  Of 
course  there  are  the  papers  and  magazines,  but 
they're  not  like  letters." 

"  And  you  will  write  to  me?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head.  "Nothing  happens 
in  Innisfield,"  she  sighed.  "There  is  just  church 
and  prayer-meeting  and  the  sewing-society.  You 
would  not  care  to  hear  about  such  things." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     231 

"  I  should  care  to  hear  about  anything  that  inter- 
ests you,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Tell  me  what  you 
are  thinking  of,  too;  we'll  try  and  get  acquainted 
all  over  again,  and  perhaps  by  next  summer " 

"  No — no! "  whispered  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  fright- 
ened little  shiver;  "not  next  summer!  I  shall 
not " 

He  waited  patiently  for  her  to  finish  her  sentence. 
Then  he  bade  her  a  hasty  good-bye  at  her  own  door 
and  hurried  away  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

Miss  Cynthia  went  in  and  closed  the  door  definitely 
behind  her.  She  was  glad  to  find  Abby  Whiton  build- 
ing a  fire  on  the  sitting-room  hearth.  She  stood  close 
beside  her  without  removing  her  hat  or  gloves. 

"  The'  was  a  man  come  to  the  door  to  see  you  this 
aft'noon,"  said  Abby,  bending  to  blow  the  reluctant 
little  flames  into  brisker  life.  "  He  left  his  card,  an' 
who  d'  ye  s'pose  it  was?  I  studied  over  it  quite  a 
spell  before  I  remembered." 

"It  was  James  Blake,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  quietly. 
"  I  met  him  on  the  way  home." 

"Fer  goodness"  sake!  wha'  'd  he  want?"  demanded 
Abby  Whiton.  "An*  where  in  creation  did  he  come 


232     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

from?  I  wouldn't  V  knowed  him  from  Adam! 
would  you?" 

Miss  Cynthia  made  no  reply.  She  had  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  was  staring  thoughtfully  at  the 
leaping  flames. 

"  I  guess  mebbe  you'd  better  take  your  things  off 
an'  stay  a  spell,"  observed  Abby  Whiton,  with  a  deli- 
cately sarcastic  sniff.  She  turned  her  back  on  the 
small  figure  of  her  mistress  and  sought  the  seclusion 
of  her  kitchen,  where  she  grumbled  suspiciously  into 
the  depths  of  the  coal-hod  and  exploited  her  disturbed 
feelings  through  the  safe  medium  of  the  iron  tea^ 
kettle. 

"Ef  she  sh'd  git  to  sparkin'  (thump)  at  her  age 
(thump — thump)  the'  ain't  no  tellin'  how  it  'ud  come 
out!  (thump,  thump,  bang!)" 


XVI 

ON  the  second  morning  after  Miss  Cynthia's  meeting 
with  James  Blake  the  postman  delivered  a  letter  into 
the  hand  of  Abby  Whiton.  Miss  Whiton  had  been 
engaged  in  strenuous  conflict  with  the  flying  leaves, 
which  raced  hither  and  yon  in  impish  glee,  as  if  defy- 
ing her  and  her  powerful  implement  of  warfare. 

"  I  d'clare  the'  ain't  a  season  of  the  year  when  things 
is  reel  neat  outdoors,"  she  complained  to  the  post- 
man. "What  with  snow  an'  slush  in  winter,  an' 
tree-blows  all  over  ev'rythin'  in  the  spring,  an'  cater- 
pillars an'  birds  an'  cherrystuns,  an'  goodness  knows 
what  all  a-messin'  things  up  in  summer,  an'  these  'ere 
pesky  leaves  in  th'  fall — it  doos  seem  's  'o  the  Creator 
might  ha'  had  more  consid'ration  for  orderly  folks ! " 

She  paused  to  finger  the  thick  letter  directed  to  her 
mistress  in  a  man's  small,  firm  handwriting.  "7 
want-ta-know! "  she  muttered  suspiciously.  "  Now, 
I  wonder  ef  he'd  hev  the  gall — after  all  these  years. 
Course,  she's  got  money,  an'  the'  ain't  nobody,  'cept 
me,  to  hender." 

233 


234     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Abby  Whiton's  memory  was  of  a  superior  quality 
and  texture,  and  she  had  recalled  without  effort  the 
single  romance  of  Miss  Cynthia's  life.  She  had 
thoroughly  agreed  with  the  late  Mrs.  Day  and  Grand- 
mother Breyfogle  in  their  strong  disapproval  of  the 
penniless  young  man.  And  on  one  occasion  she  had 
experienced  the  peculiar  satisfaction  of  intercepting 
a  note  intended  for  the  girl's  private  perusal.  It  had 
been  tucked  under  the  doormat;  Abby  had  found  it 
there,  and  had  conveyed  it  without  delay  to  her  mis- 
tress, with  the  remark  'that  she  hoped  she  knew  her 
duty.  Mrs.  Day  had  praised  her  warmly  for  this  act 
of  service,  Abby  remembered.  She  also  remembered 
Miss  Cynthia's  pale  face  and  reddened  eyes,  as  they 
appeared  that  morning  at  breakfast,  and  for  many 
mornings  and  evenings  thereafter. 

"  I  do'  know  as  I'd  better  inte'f  ere  this  time,"  the  ex- 
cellent woman  cogitated,  as  she  carried  the  letter  up- 
stairs. "  She's  gittin'  old  'nough  to  know  her  own 
mind,  ef  she's  ever  a-goin'  to." 

She  knocked  resoundingly  at  her  mistress'  door. 
"  Here's  a  letter,"  she  announced.  "  An'  I  guess  it's 
from  him,!  " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     235 

She  was  vaguely  disappointed  in  Miss  Cynthia's 
manner  as  she  received  the  letter.  She  deposited  it 
quietly  on  the  bureau,  and  immediately  resumed  the 
bit  of  mending  she  had  in  hand.  "Mebbe  it  ain't 
from  him,  after  all,"  reflected  Abby  Whiton. 
"  Seems  's  'o  she'd  ought  to  ha'  perked  up  an'  showed 
a  little  more  int'rest,  if  it  was." 

On  the  fourth  morning  thereafter  she  carried  up  a 
second  letter;  and  a  week  later  a  third.  "If  these 
'ere  letters  ain't  from  him,  I'd  like  to  know  who  in 
creation's  a-writin'  to  her  so  frequent,"  Miss  Whiton 
remarked  to  herself.  She  watched  her  mistress  closely, 
and  except  that  she  now  went  out  for  her  long  walks 
without  regard  for  the  weather,  she  could  detect  no 
difference  in  her  manner  or  conduct. 

"  I  never  heerd  o'  sech  a  thing  es  goin'  out  f  er  pleas- 
ure on  a  day  like  this,"  she  ventured,  by  way  of  ex- 
postulation, when  Miss  Cynthia  was  about  to  sally 
forth  in  the  face  of  a  cold,  driving  rain.  "  Seems 
's  'o  it  wa'n't  hardly  respectable." 

"  It  doesn't  hurt  me  a  bit,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  absent- 
mindedly.  "I  like  it.  Besides,  I've  got  to  go  and 
see  old  Mrs.  Phillips;  I  promised  her." 


236     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  You  sent  her  beef -tea  an'  jell  yist'd'y,"  sniffed 
Abby.  "  Course,  I  b'lieve  in  doin'  good ;  but  the's 
sech  a  thing  as  carryin'  it  too  fur." 

"  Not  for  me,"  Miss  Cynthia  murmured,  with 
clouded  eyes.  "  I  didn't  do  anything  for  years  and 
years.  You  know  I  didn't,  Abby." 

"  I  guess  you  done  full  es  much  es  most  folks," 
grumbled  Abby,  "an'  now  you're  a-doin'  twict  es 
much  es  any  other  woman  in  this  'ere  town.  Folks  '11 
be  sayin'  you're  reel  bragity  an'  stuck-up,  bein'  so 
awful  good  an'  charit'ble  all  of  a  suddent." 

"  I  don't  care  what  people  say  about  me,"  answered 
Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  dispirited  sigh. 

The  fourth  letter  arrived  that  afternoon.  Abby 
Whiton  placed  it  on  the  sitting-room  mantelpiece; 
then  stood  back  and  regarded  it  thoughtfully,  her 
hands  on  her  hips.  "I'll  bet  a  dollar  she  ain't  an- 
swered one  of  'em!"  she  ejaculated.  "I  ain't  seen 
her  a-doin'  it,  anyhow,  an'  I've  kep'  my  eye  on  her 
pretty  constant.  I  d'clare  it's  'nough  to  rile  a  saint ! " 

After  a  further  period  of  reflection  she  removed  the 
letter  from  its  prominent  position  to  a  retired  nook  of 
her  pantry  shelf.  Here  it  reposed  until  Miss  Cynthia 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     237 

had  returned  from  her  walk  and  was  well  established 
by  the  cheerful  fire,  which  Abby  had  fully  accepted  as 
one  of  the  institutions  of  the  newly-organised  house- 
hold. 

"  Here's  another  of  them  letters  of  hisn,"  Miss 
Whiton  announced,  handling  the  missive  as  gingerly 
as  though  it  contained  a  charge  of  dynamite.  "It 
come  this  aft'noon  while  you  was  out,  an'  I  saved  it 
fer  you." 

"Thank  you,  Abby,"  Miss  Cynthia  said,  with  an 
entire  absence  of  surprise  or  pleasure.  She  laid  the 
letter  on  the  table  at  her  side,  and  went  on  stroking 
the  big  maltese  cat  which  had  climbed  to  her  lap. 

"Well,  ain't  you  a-goin'  to  read  it?"  demanded 
Abby  sharply.  Her  flushed  face  exhibited  undaunted 
determination  in  every  puckered  line. 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  up  and  met  the  old  woman's 
shrewd,  anxious  eyes  fastened  expectantly  upon  her. 
"  Why  yes,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly.  "  I  mean  to 
read  it  after  a  while ! "  The  big  cat  purred  loudly 
and  arched  his  back  under  the  steady  motion  of  the 
little  hand.  "Would  you  like  to  know  who  the 
letters  are  from,  Abby?" 


238     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"I've  b'en  s'posin'  all  'long  they  was  from  him," 
replied  Miss  Whiton,  with  a  firm  tightening  of  her 
lips.  "  'Tain't  's  'o  I  disremembered  what  happened 
a  spell  back.  I've  thought  it  all  over  sence  them 
letters  has  been  comin',  an'  do'  know  but  what  we  was 
all  mistook  in  that  young  feller  when  he  first  come 
sparkin'  ye.  He  looks  reel  well-to-do.  I  took  per- 
tic'lar  notice  of  his  clo'es  the  day  he  come  t'  the  door. 
But  I  guess  't  wouldn't  do  no  harm  to  be  reel  keerful. 
Like  es  not  he's  got  a  wife  and  childern  a-ready; 
I've  heerd  o'  such  things  before  now." 

Miss  Cynthia  sighed.  "  Sit  down,  Abby,"  she  said 
kindly.  Then  she  was  silent  for  a  time,  absent- 
mindedly  caressing  the  purring,  fawning  creature  on 
her  knees. 

"The  letters  are  from  James  Blake,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "I  meant  to  tell  you.  You  are  the  only  one 
left  to  care  much  what  happens  to  me.  But  it  is 
not  as  you  think,  Abby.  I  have  no  thought  of 
marrying." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  why  not!"  snapped  Abby 
Whiton.  "  'F  he's  respectable  an'  well-to-do — an'  he 
cert'nly  doos  look  so.  An'  even  ef  he  ain't  got  much 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     239 

prop'ty,  'tain't  es  if  you  hadn't  got  a-plenty.  I  do' 
know  why  you  shouldn't  hev  a  home  an'  husban', 
same's  other  folks.  An'  goodness  knows  the'  ain't 
no  pickin'  an'  choosin'  to  be  done  in  this  'ere  town 
with  men  as  scurse  es  hen's  teeth.  It's  prob'ly  yer 
las'  chance." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  staring  into  the  fire.  "Abby," 
she  said  at  last,  "  I've  never  made  any  will.  I  must 
do  it — soon.  I  can't  think  what  to  do  with  the 
money.  I  wish  I  could  leave  it  to  help  girls  have 
good  times  while  they — are  young,  and  want  good 
times  so  much"  There  was  a  passionate  wail  in  her 
low  voice. 

Abby  Whiton  rose  up  with  a  smothered  ejaculation 
of  wrath.  "  Anybody'd  think  you  was  a  full  hunderd 
years  old  to  hear  you  a-goin'  on ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  An'  you  a-growin'  younger  an'  better-lookin'  'an 
I've  seed  you  in  years — not  'at  I  mean  to  flatter 
yer  vanity  a  mite.  A  flatterin'  tongue's  an  'bomina- 
tion  to  the  Lord,  an'  you  favor  the  Breyfogles  too 
clost  to  be  reelly  han'some.  But  I'll  say  this  much: 
you  "hev  changed,  an'  not  fer  the  worse.  My! 
You  could  'a'  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather  the 


240     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

day  I  come  home,  an*  seen  you  a-standin'  there  in 
that  blue  dress.  I  d'clare  to  goodness  I  thought  I'd 
seen  a  ghost!" 

Miss  Cynthia's  face  wore  a  piteous  little  smile. 
"  Oh,  Abby,"  she  breathed,  "  do  you  say  your 
prayers  ?  " 

"  Per  the  lan's  sake!  "  Miss  Whiton  eyed  her  mis- 
tress with  horrified  incredulity.  "I  sh'd  say  I  did! 
I  say  'em  jest  es  reg'lar  es  I  scrub  the  kitchen  floor. 
Course  I  say  'em!  Did  you  s'pose  I'd  fallen  from 
grace?  Well,  I'll  bet  I  ain't !  " 

"  Do — you — ever — pray — for — me?  " 

"Well,  I  just  guess  I  do!  Cert'nly,  I  do,  Miss 
Cynthy.  I  hope  I  know  my  dooty.  I've  remembered 
you  'fore  the  throne  of  grace  sence  you  was  a  baby. 
Tell  you  was  turned  fifteen,  I  ast  the  Lord  to  make 
you  a  good,  'bedient  child — an'  you  cert'nly  did 
mind  me  when  you  come  in  the  kitchen.  Then  I 
took  to  intercedin'  'at  you  mightn't  be  kerried  away 
with  foolishness  an'  the  pride  o'  the  world, — 'bout  that 
time  you  kind  of  took  a  notion  of  fixin'  yer  hair  all 
perky  an'  curly,  an'  I  caught  ye  a-lookin'  in  the  glass 
too  frequent.  I  kep'  that  up  pretty  constant  till 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     241 

you  was  twenty  past,  an'  Jim  Blake  was  out  the  way. 
Of  late  years  I've  b'en  wrestlin'  in  prayer  to  hev  you 
kep'  in  the  straight  an*  narrer  way  tell  you  git 
through  this  'ere  vale  of  tears  an'  safe  to  heaven. 
I'm  sure  the'  can't  nobody  ast  no  more  'an  that  fer 
nobody ! " 

Miss  Cynthia  pushed  the  big  cat  from  her  knees. 
Her  face  had  grown  suddenly  pale  and  pinched. 
"  Please  don't  pray  that  prayer  for  me  any  more ! " 
she  begged  tremulously.  "Don't,  Abby!  Please 
don't!  I  don't  want  to  go  to  heaven  for  a  long, 
long  time.  You  don't  want  I  should,  do  you,  Abby  ?  " 

"  You  don't  s'pose  I'm  reelly  yearnin'  fer  another 
fun'ral,  do  ye?  "  demanded  Abby,  with  a  grim  humour 
which  only  partly  concealed  her  real  emotions.  "  I 
ain't  the  soft-soap  kind,  an'  never  was,  but  I  guess 
you  c'n  make  out  what  I  think  'bout  you  without  me 
a-tellin'  ye.  All  I've  got  to  say  is,  ef  that  kind  of 
pray  in'  don't  suit,  I  c'n  change  it  to  any  thin'  you 
say." 

Abby's  unquestioning  faith  in  the  potency  of  her 
petitions  did  not  appeal  to  Miss  Cynthia's  sense  of 
humour.  She  raised  witsful,  imploring  eyes  to  the 


242     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

puckered  old  face.  "  I  wish,"  she  began,  slowly  and 
with  long  pauses,  "  that  you  would  pray  to  have  me 
live  a  long  time.  I  want — to — to  live.  And  please 
don't  put  in  anything  about  this  vale  of  tears  when 
you  pray  for  me.  I  don't  want  to  cry  any  more, 
Abby.  Seems  to  me  I've  hardly  ever  laughed.  I 
should  like  to  laugh — a  good  deal,  and — and  be 
happy.  People  do,  you  know — good  people.  It 
isn't  wicked  to  be  happy,  do  you  think  it  is,  Abby  ?  " 

"Mebbe  I've  be'n  a-doin'  wrong  by  her  all  these 
years  without  thinkin'  a  word  about  it!"  muttered 
Abby,  in  the  privacy  of  her  kitchen  pantry. 
"  Prayers  is  awful  powerful  things.  Most  all  of  mine 
hes  b'en  answered,  first  an'  last." 

Then  she  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  flour  barrel 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

"  O  Lord !  "  she  petitioned  devoutly,  "  I  do'  know 
es  I  understan'  .what  Miss  Cynthy  'd  ought  to  hev  es 
well  es  I  thought  I  done.  I  reelly  ain't  s'  sure  es  I 
was  once  what's  good  fer  her.  She's  cert'nly  got 
some  queer  notion  er  other  in  her  head  'at  I  can't 
make  out.  But,  O  Lord!  I  do  want  she  should  be 
happy — jest  es  happy  es  she  kin  be.  An',  O  Lord! 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     243 

seem'  es  she's  kind  of  set  against  goin'  to  heaven, 
won't  you  let  her  live  a  consid'able  spell.  The's 
times  when  I  feel  's  'o  I'd  jest  es  soon  pass  over  the 
river  es  not,  but  Miss  Cynthy,  she  don't  seem  to 
hanker  none  fer  the  golden  streets;  so  jest  let  her  git 
her  fill  of  livin' — good,  happy,  healthy  livin' !  Amen ! " 

She  presently  heard  her  mistress  laugh,  a  little,  low 
laugh  of  pure  enjoyment;  and  peeping  in  at  a  crack 
of  the  door  she  beheld  her  deep  in  the  perusal  of  the 
letter.  "  That  soun's  more  like  it,"  said  Abby 
Whiton  to  herself,  with  real  satisfaction.  "Jim 
Blake  was  bound  an'  determined  to  see  the  fun  in 
ev'rythin',  I  remember ;  always  a-laughin'  an'  carryin' 
on.  That  was  one  reason  the  folks  couldn't  abide 
him.  Miss'  Day  us't  to  say  he  was  light-minded  an' 
triflin',  an'  Gran'ma  Breyfogle,  she  hadn't  no  airthly 
use  fer  anybody  without  prop'ty." 

Miss  Cynthia  had  laughed  more  than  once  over 
James  Blake's  thick  letters.  She  had  cried,  too, — 
cold,  reluctant  drops  which  left  her  eyes  tired  and 
smarting. 

"Just  to  prove  to  you  that  I  haven't  really  for- 
gotten," he  said,  in  his  first  letter,  "  and  to  make  a 


244     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

good,  square  foundation  for  what  I  hope  will  come 
afterward,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  of  everything  we 
did  fifteen  years  ago.  If  I  get  things  mixed,  you 
must  set  me  right." 

There  had  followed  curiously  boyish  accounts  of  the 
old  school  days,  when  he  had  carried  her  books  for 
her  to  a  certain  corner,  beyond  which  the  sharp  eyes 
in  the  windows  of  the  Breyfogle  house  made  it  unsafe 
to  go. 

"There  was  a  Sunday-school  picnic  in  Bentley's 
grove  one  yeary"  he  wrote,  "  and,  wonder  of  wonders, 
you  were  allowed  to  come  to  it  with  your  teacher.  A 
good  soul  was  Mrs.  Turner.  What  has  become  of 
her;  do  you  know?  You  wore  a  thin,  black  dress 
with  round,  pink  spots  all  over  it,  and  a  straw  hat 
with  blue  ribbons." 

Miss  Cynthia  shook  her  head,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"I  wore  a  black  muslin  with  little,  white  briar  roses 
running  all  over  it,"  she  said,  and  sighed. 

Then  she  turned  again  to  the  letter.  "  We  sat  in 
the  edge  of  the  meadow  and  told  each  other's  fortunes 
with  daisies,  and  you  stuck  my  hatband  full  of  them. 
I  was  ashamed  of  the  hat  because  it  was  old  and 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     245 

shabby.  I  was  often  ashamed  of  my  clothes  in  those 
days.  But  you  were  always  as  fresh  and  neat  as  a 
daisy  that  had  opened  over  night. 

"  Once  I  wrote  some  verses  about  you,  and  that  old 
cat  of  an  Abby  Whiton  found  them  and  gave  them 
to  your  mother.  I  see  old  Abby  is  with  you  yet, 
and  looking  more  vinegary  and  nipped  than  ever. 
She  didn't  know  me  when  I  called ;  but  I  remembered 
her  all  right." 

There  was  not  a  word  in  these  first  letters  about  tHe 
writer's  present  life,  and  Miss  Cynthia  wondered  at 
it  shyly.  They  were  written  from  a  western  city, 
on  big  square  sheets  of  paper  which  breathed  a  deli- 
cate aroma  of  fine  tobacco,  so  suggestively  masculine 
that  Miss  Cynthia  shut  the  letters  carefully  into  her 
bureau  drawer  when  she  undressed  at  night. 

She  spoiled  many  sheets  of  her  own  small,  violet- 
tinted  paper  before  she  managed  to  say  what  she  had 
vaguely  determined  upon  before  the  arrival  of  the 
first  letter. 

"Friend  James:  (she  wrote,  in  her  fine,  pointed 
hand)  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  writing  to 
me.  It  has  seemed  almost  like  being  young  again 


246     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

to  read  your  letters.  I  never  knew  letters  could  be 
like  that.  But  I  don't  want  you  should  write  to  me 
any  more.  Once  I  was  very  unkind  to  you,  and  I  am 
sorry,  as  I  told  you.  I  am  trying  to  be  kind  now, 
so  I  must  say,  please  don't  write  to  me  again.  And 
don't  remember  the  old  days,  except  to  laugh  at  them, 
as  you  did  before." 

She  signed  her  name  stiffly,  as  to  a  business  letter. 
Then  she  tried  hard  not  to  expect  an  answer.  When 
one  came,  very  promptly,  she  was  so  glad  she  cried. 
Afterward  she  shut  the  letter,  unread,  into  her  bureau 
drawer  for  a  whole  day. 

"I  have  no  right  to  let  him — love  me  again,"  she 
told  herself  passionately.  "It  would  be  more  cruel 
than  it  was  before,  and  more  deceitful.  But  oh,  I 
can't  tell  him — I  can't!  " 

It  had  occurred  to  her  more  than  once  that  she  might 
go  to  Boston  and  consult  the  doctor.  "  If  I  should 
be  getting  better!"  she  thought,  with  a  strangling 
heart-throb.  "But  if  I  am  really  worse — and  he 
should  tell  me  so — right  out,  the  way  he  did  before, 
I  couldn't  bear  it — now." 

By  slow  degrees  the  autumn   merged  slowly  into 


tThe  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     247 

winter.  Before  Thanksgiving  Day  the  streets  of 
Innisfield  were  piled  high  with  snow,  and  jangling 
sleighs  passed  back  and  forth  before  the  old  Brey- 
f  ogle  house  on  Maple  Street. 

Abby  Whiton  petitioned  the  Lord  night  and  morn- 
ing, and  at  odd  moments,  behind  the  pantry  door, 
and  down  in  the  vegetable  cellar,  and  sometimes  with 
merely  the  thin  shelter  of  her  checked  gingham  apron 
between  her  closed  eyes  and  the  world.  And  the 
burden  of  all  these  fervent  prayers  was  for  Miss  Cyn- 
thia that  she  might  "  live  out  her  days,  O  Lord !  an' 
be  happy,  an'  laugh  more'n  she  doos!" 


xvn 

DEACON  SCRIMGER  stood  on  the  bleak  piazza  of  the 
parsonage  and  laid  hold  upon  the  handle  of  the  door- 
bell with  an  energy  which  sent  a  jangling  peal 
through  the  silent  house.  It  was  Saturday  morning 
and  the  hour  was  half -past  ten.  Little  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone  came  at  once  to  the  door;  she  looked  worried 
and  anxious  as  she  admitted  the  old  man  into  the 
narrow,  sparsely  furnished  hall. 

"  I  s'pose  the  dominie's  to  hum,"  began  the  deacon, 
blowing  his  nose  a  resounding  blast,  as  he  deposited 
his  shabby  old  hat  on  the  hall  table.  "My!  the 
pars'nage  feels  mighty  warm  an'  comf'table  this 
mornin'.  The'  's  very  few  folks,  Mis'  Pettibone,  'at 
c'n  afford  to  burn  so  much  fuel  in  these  'ere  hard 
times.  It  must  cost  the  paster  a  good  deal,  I  sh'd 
say." 

"  We  are  obliged  to  keep  the  house  warm  on  account 
of  Mr.  Pettibone's  weak  throat,"  the  minister's  wife 
made  haste  to  explain.  "  We  try  to  economise  in 
other  ways,"  she  added  apologetically. 

248 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     249 

"  H — m ! "  commented  Deacon  Scrimger,  with  an  air 
of  cautious  reserve.  "  I  see  you  git  time  to  fuss  with 
house-plants,"  he  went  on,  rolling  his  rheumy  eyes 
about  the  little  sitting  room.  "I  hope  the  Lord's 
business  don't  suffer  none  on  account  of  'em.  A 
paster's  wife  has  a  great  r'sponsibility  a-restin'  on 
her — a  great  r'sponsibility.  You'd  ought  to  realise 
that,  Mis'  Pettibone." 

"  I  try  to,"  murmured  the  little  woman,  with  becom- 
ing meekness. 

"  Folks  is  bound  to  look  up  to  ye  f er  an  example," 
continued  the  deacon.  "  An'  they'd  ought  to  find  ye 
with  yer  lamp  always  trimmed  an'  burnin'.  M' 
wife  was  a-tellin'  me  this  mornin'  that  you  hadn't 
called  to  see  her  fer  quite  a  spell.  N'glectin'  past'ral 
visitation  's  a  tumble  mistake  fer  a  minister's  wife, 
Mis'  Pettibone ;  you'd  ought  to  be  a-goin'  to  an'  fro 
on  the  walls  of  Zion  purty  constant.  The  fact  is, 
this  'ere  commun'ty  is  gittin'  alarmin'ly  indiffer'nt 
to  holy  things.  Sev'ral  prom'nent  members  of  the 
congregation  hes  spoke  to  me  'bout  it  of  late.  One 
contrib'ter  to  the  paster's  salary  says  to  me,  *  The 
sermons  don't  seem  to  be  a-takin*  holt,  somehow,'  he 


250     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

says.  'The'  ain't  'nough  sound  doctrine  in  'em,'  he 
says." 

The  deacon  paused  to  lace  his  horny  fingers  com- 
fortably across  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  "I've  be'n 
noticin'  fer  some  time  back  'at  sinners  is  'lowed  to 
feel  too  easy  in  their  lost  condishun.  What  we  reelly 
need  in  this  'ere  commun'ty  is  a  sound  revival  of 
religion ;  an'  I've  come  'round  this  mornin'  calc'latin* 
to  talk  it  over  with  the  paster.  I  understan'  the 
Methodists  is  plannin'  to  git  one  up.  I  tell  ye 
they've  got  a  man  'at's  up  an'  a-doin' !  " 

Two  pink  spots  had  appeared  in  Mrs.  Pettibone's 
cheeks ;  her  little  hands  were  folded  tightly  in  her  lap. 
"  Could  you — would  you  mind — waiting  till — till 
some  other  time  to  talk  this  over  with  Mr.  Pettibone?  " 
she  asked,  with  a  dogged  timidity  of  manner.  "  Mr. 
Pettibone  is  so  very  busy  with  his  sermon  this  morning 
I  told  him  I  wouldn't  disturb  him,  except  for  some- 
thing very  important.  If  you  would  excuse  him  till 
Monday,  perhaps." 

Deacon  Scrimger's  mouth  had  screwed  itself  into  a 
puckered  knot  during  the  progress  of  this  speech ;  his 
eyes  had  narrowed  into  crafty  slits.  "What's  the 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     251 

paster  be'n  a-doin'  with  his  time  all  the  week  till 
now  ?  "  he  demanded  sharply.  "  Seems  's  'o  as  long's 
he's  hed  nothin'  else  to  occ'py  his  time  sence  the  Sab- 
bath 'at  his  sermon'd  ought  to  be  pretty  nigh  drawed 
to  a  close  come  Sat'day.  As  fer  somethin'  important, 
what's  more  important  'an  lost  souls?  I  guess  I'll 
jes'  step  right  int'  the  study,  Mis'  Pettibone,  an' 
put  that  question  to  the  paster ;  mebbe  it  '11  give  his 
sermon  the  snap  'at's  be'n  a-wantin'  in  'em  lately." 

Mr.  Pettibone  laid  down  his  pen  with  a  patient  sigh 
as  the  loud  creak  of  his  study  door  apprised  him  of 
the  dreaded  interruption.  He  was  a  pale,  scholarly- 
looking  man,  with  a  fine,  grave  face  lined  with  the 
severe  doctrines  of  his  creed  and  the  manifold  per- 
plexities incident  to  his  pastoral  charge  in  Innisfield. 
He  greeted  Deacon  Scrimger  with  a  cordial  hand- 
clasp, which  conveyed  no  hint  of  the  prayer  for  fresh 
supplies  of  Christian  charity  which  he  had  promptly 
put  up  at  sight  of  the  old  man's  long-drawn  face. 

"  Pve  jest  be'n  a-havin'  a  few  words  of  counsel  with 
Mis'  Pettibone,"  observed  the  deacon,  as  he  seated 
himself  with  a  deliberation  which  betokened  a  lengthy 
visitation.  "  I  was  reelly  s'prised  to  learn  f 'om  her 


252     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

thet  you  hadn't  completed  yer  prep'rations  fer  the 
comin'  Lord's  day." 

"  I  seldom  do  until  Saturday,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone, 
with  a  determinedly  pleasant  smile.  "  I  have  always 
considered  it  a  wise  practice  to  finish  my  sermon  after 
the  pastoral  work  of  the  week  is  over.  I  find  sug- 
gestive material  in  the  spiritual  condition  of  the  peo- 
ple themselves,  you  understand." 

"  Wall,  now,  it  don't  'pear  to  me  that's  any  way  to 
write  a  sermon,"  replied  the  deacon,  with  a  controver- 
sial clearing  of  the  throat.  "It  ain't  the  proper 
way  to  persent  the  doctrines ;  an'  that,  I  take  it,  is 
your  business  in  the  pulpit.  You'd  ought  to  git  over 
the  field  'bout  once  a  year.  Say,  take  baptism  an' 
sich  in  the  spring,  an'  mis'laneous  doctrines  in  the 
summer;  but  come  this  season  o'  the  year  sinners 
need  to  hear  about  hell-fire  an'  everlastin'  punish- 
ment, an'  the  abidin'  wrath  o'  the  Almighty." 

Mr.  Pettibone  smiled.  He  was  tempted  to  tell  a 
harmless  little  ministerial  joke  concerning  the  advisa~ 
bility  of  presenting  the  subject  of  the  nether  fires  in 
cold  weather,  but  he  discreetly  refrained. 

Deacon  Scrimger  took  acrid  notice  of  the  smile,  and 


tThe  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     253 

it  spurred  him  on  to  greater  freedom  of  speech  than 
he  had  before  ventured  upon  with  his  dignified  pastor. 
He  leaned  forward  and  planted  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
the  better  to  scan  the  minister's  face.  "  D'  you  want 
to  know  what  some  folks — payin'  contrib'ters,  too — 
is  sayin'  'bout  you  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  They  say  'at 
they've  heered  on  good  'thority  'at  your  wife  don't 
b'lieve  in  the  devil." 

The  Reverend  Pettibone  drew  himself  up  with  a 
portentous  frown.  "  My  wife's  beliefs  need  not  be 
a  matter  of  discussion  between  us,  brother,"  he  said 
stiffly.  "  I  think  you  have  never  found  me  lax  when 
it  came  to  presenting  the  doctrines  of  the  church." 

"  Yes,  I  hev,"  contradicted  the  deacon  triumphantly, 
"  I  ain't  heerd  a  sermon  on  the  subjec'  of  the  devil 
sence  you  was  married  to  Philura  Rice.  Folks  need 
to  be  roused  up  on  the  subject,  I  tell  ye.  Ain't  he 
a  roarin'  lion,  goin'  about  seekin'  whom  he  may 
devour,  I'd  like  to  know?  An'  I'll  let  you  know  'at 
th'  adversary's  a-gittin'  in  powerful  work  in  this  'ere 
commun'ty  right  now.  We'd  ought  to  be  roused  up." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Brother  Scrimger,  that  the  work 
seems  to  be  languishing  somewhat,"  said  Mr.  Petti- 


254     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

bone,  with  a  worried  sigh.  "  If  our  church-members 
could  only  be  made  to  realise  the  outflowing  love  and 
power  of  God 

Deacon  Scrimger  interrupted  his  pastor  with  a  vio- 
lent explosion  of  senile  coughing.  "  Thet's  jest  it ! " 
he  complained ;  "  thet's  the  sort  of  talk  you've  be'n 
a-givin'  us  f  om  the  pulpit  till  we're  all  well-nigh  sick 
an'  tired  of  it.  The'  ain't  no  snap  in  that  kind  of 
preachin',  I  tell  ye.  'Tain't  the  sort  to  'rest  the 
'tention  of  lost  souls  an'  keep  'em  out  o'  hell.  They 
set  back  in  their  seats  an'  go  to  sleep  on  th'  brink 
o'  torment,  whilst  you're  a-moseyin'  on  'bout  what  the 
church-members  had  ought  to  be  a-doin'.  The'  ain't 
no  airthly  use  of  wastin'  yer  time  on  th'  elect.  We're 
boun'  f er  the  heavenly  city,  an'  we  don't  need  no  such 
preachin'." 

Deacon  Scrimger  rolled  up  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling 
with  the  air  of  a  hoary  old  cherub.  His  pastor 
regarded  him  with  a  perplexed  frown.  "What  I 
have  preached  regarding  the  lovingkindness  and 
mercy  of  God  ought  to  appeal  to  saints  and  sinners 
alike,"  he  said,  after  a  thoughtful  pause.  "It  has 
been  so  impressed  upon  my  mind  of  late  years  that  I 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     255 

feel  more  and  more  impelled  to  give  it  to  the  world. 
It  seems  to  me  that  is  what  the  world  is  hungering 
and  thirsting  for." 

"He — he — he!"  giggled  the  deacon,  with  rasping 
scorn.  "  That's  be'n  purty  evident  to  the  most  of  us ; 
an'  'tain't  hard  to  guess  where  you  git  your  pecooliar 
views.  Wall,  I  called  in  to  talk  up  the  subjec'  of  a 
revival  this  mornin'.  I  s'pose  you've  kep'  yer  eyes  on 
what  the  Methodists  are  a-doin'.  That  new  man  of 
theirn  is  a  hustler  f'om  wayback.  He's  a-givin'  'em 
doctrine,  hot  an'  heavy,  right  erlong,  an'  he's  a  paster 
'at  knows  his  biz  f'om  a  to  izzard.  I  heered  he'd 
got  the  Northrup  fambly  to  hire  a  pew  there,  an' 
Northrup  's  a  moneyed  man.  Did  you  an'  Mis' 
Pettibone  git  eround  to  see  'em?  I  heered  you 
didn't." 

"  I  called  upon  the  family  soon  after  their  arrival  in 
town,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone  coldly.  "  They  informed 
me  that  they  were  in  the  habit  of  attending  the 
Methodist  church,  so  I  notified  Mr.  Smiley  of  the 
fact." 

"Huh ! "  exploded  the  deacon  wrathf ully,  "  that  ain't 
no  way  to  build  up  Zion,  an'  I  guess  you'll  fin'  it  out ; 


256     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

pew-rents  ain't  a-goin'  to  pay  yer  salary  this  year, 
an'  everythin'  way  up  in  gee.  Money's  closter  'an 
it's  be'n  in  years." 

The   minister  was   silent,  his   long,   pale  fingers 
drumming  absent-mindedly  upon  his  desk. 

"  I  do'  know  how  in  creation  we  c'n  pay  fer  it," 
pursued  the  deacon  lugubriously,  "  but  I'm  in  favour 
of  procurin'  the  services  of  a  good,  smart,  godly 
evangelist  to  come  an'  labour  'mongst  us  fer  a  spell. 
Somepin's  got  to  be  done,  or  we'll  hev  to  shet  the 
church  doors." 

Still  the  minister  was  silent.  His  face  had  assumed 
a  look  of  dignified  composure  under  suffering,  such  as 
a  martyr  might  have  worn  with  propriety. 

"  The'  *s  be'n  consid'able  dissatisfaction  amongst 
the  payin'  contrib'ters,  off  an'  on,"  Deacon  Scrimger 
resumed  with  an  inquisitorial  air.  "I  felt  's  'o  it 
was  my  Christian  dooty  to  mention  it." 

The  Reverend  Pettibone  suddenly  rose  up  to  his  full 
height — he  was  a  tall  man.  "  I  think  I  fully  appre- 
ciate your  motives,  Brother  Scrimger,"  he  said  dryly. 
"  I  shall  consult  the  Session  of  the  church  about  these 
and  various  matters  at  an  early  opportunity."  He 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     257 

glanced  at  his  watch.  "  I  am  sorry  to  appear  rude, 
brother,  but  as  I  have  a  funeral  service  at  half -past 
eleven,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  suspend  our  conversation 
for  the  present." 

When  the  door  had  fairly  closed  on  the  lingering 
visitor,  little  Mrs.  Pettibone  came  flying  into  the 
study.  Her  blue  eyes  were  very  bright,  her  cheeks 
very  pink,  she  was  half  laughing,  half  crying,  as  she 
flung  herself  down  on  her  husband's  knee,  and  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  Oh,  you  poor  dear,  you ! " 
she  cooed,  "  I  tried  hard  to  keep  him  out,  but  he  just 
marched  right  in,  in  spite  of  me.  Don't  you  mind  a 
thing  he  says,  dearest." 

The  Reverend  Pettibone  rested  his  tired  head  upon 
her  little  shoulder.  "You  are  such  a  precious  com- 
fort," he  breathed.  "What  should  I  do  without 
you?" 

Mrs.  Pettibone  laughed  joyously.  "I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure,"  she  said  wisely.  Then  she  kissed  him  twice 
on  the  little  bald  spot  which  was  beginning  to  appear 
where  the  dark  hair  had  once  been  thickest.  "  Every 
single  thing — even  our  worries — works  together  for 
good  to  those  that  love  good,"  she  whispered.  "  Isn't 


258     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

it  good  to  remember  that !  Now,  dear,  come  to  lunch, 
it's  all  ready  and  you  haven't  much  time." 

One  of  the  results  of  the  interview  between  the  Rev. 
Silas  Pettibone  and  his  solicitous  parishioner  became 
evident  during  the  first  week  of  the  new  yeary  when 
it  was  formally  announced  from  the  pulpit  that  a 
series  of  revival  services  would  be  held  in  the  Presby- 
terian church,  conducted  by  the  pastor,  who  would  be 
ably  assisted  by  the  well-known  evangelist,  Rev.  G. 
'Algernon  Guffey,  and  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel, 
Filbert  Swick. 

It  was  observed  (particularly  by  Mrs.  Pettibone) 
that  the  minister's  earnest  face  appeared  more  pallid 
and  grave  than  usual  as  he  read  this  important  notice, 
but  there  was  no  lack  of  unction  in  his  carefully  pre- 
pared comments  on  the  coming  "  season  of  grace." 
The  congregation  understood  vaguely  that  their 
pastor  had  laid  himself,  a  willing  sacrifice,  upon  the 
altar  of  the  cause. 

It  was  understood  also  that  the  Rev.  G.  Algernon 
Guffey  and  his  adjutant  would  make  their  head- 
quarters at  the  parsonage  while  controlling  the 
campaign.  This  was  felt  to  be  quite  as  it  should  be, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     259 

more  particularly  as  the  slow-growing  fund  in  the 
hands  of  the  finance  committee  would  not  be  depleted 
by  bills  for  board  and  lodging  for  the  temporary 
labourers,  whose  services  were  otherwise  rated  very 
high  indeed. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  confided  to  Miss  Pratt  with  an  air 
of  hardly  concealed  pride,  that  the  Rev.  Guffey 
wouldn't  hear  to  coming  to  Innisfield  till  an  agree- 
ment guaranteeing  him  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
per  week  had  been  signed  by  ten  financially  responsi- 
ble church-members,  headed  by  the  pastor ;  while  Mr. 
Filbert  Swick's  services  commanded  the  modest  sum 
of  twenty-five  dollars  the  week  (payable  strictly  in 
advance) .  It  was  felt,  however,  to  be  well  worth  while 
in  a  community  in  which  society  languished  as  the 
snow  deepened.  The  principal  of  the  village  school 
was  exhorted  to  shorten  all  school  exercises  and  tasks 
in  order  that  the  young  people  might  be  free  to  assist 
in  the  singing  under  the  leadership  of  Mr.  Swick. 
Incidentally,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  these  young 
persons  would  be  "  saved." 

Miss  Cynthia  Day  expressed  but  a  languid  interest 
in  the  proposed  "  revival."  She  subscribed,  with  her 


260     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

new-found  liberality,  to  the  fund  which  was  being 
raised  for  the  purpose,  but  she  told  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
who  was  actively  engaged  in  canvassing  the  neigh- 
bourhood, that  she  could  not  promise  to  attend  the 
meetings. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  miss  a  blessin',  Cynthia,  if  you 
set  idly  by  whilst  the  Spirit  is  bein'  poured  out," 
sighed  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "You'd  ought  to  come  up 
to  the  help  of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty!  The'  's 
goin'  to  be  sunrise  prayer-meetin's  every  motrnin',  an5 
ten  o'clock  meetin's  fer  church-members,  an'  aft'noon 
mass-meetin's,  an'  a  five  o'clock  female  prayer-meetin', 
an'  reg'lar  preachin'  services  every  evenin'  with  after 
meetin's  fer  inquirers,  besides  experience  meetin's  fer 
backsliders.  It  '11  be  a  glorious  time!  The  Rev. 
Guffey  is  a  reel  power  in  the  pulpit;  they  do  say 
folks  is  comin'  way  f'om  State  Bridge  an'  Farmsley 
to  hear  him." 

"  Did  you  say  that  both  of  those  men  were  to  stay 
at  the  parsonage?  "  inquired  Miss  Cynthia. 

"  Cert'nly,  where'd  you  s'pose  they'd  stay  ?  It  '11 
be  a  reel  spiritual  blessw'  to  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  'em.  I  do  hope  our  paster  '11  get  livened  up, 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     261 

an'  stren'thened  in  the  doctrines;  an'  as  fer  Philura 
Pettibone,  I'm  a-prayin'  that  she'll  git  soundly  con- 
verted. She  needs  it! " 

"  I  don't  see  how  she'll  find  time  to  do  anything 
except  cook  for  three  hungry  men,"  observed  Miss 
Cynthia  thoughtfully. 

"  She'll  be  to  every  meetin',"  said  Mrs.  Buckthorne 
tranquilly.  **  She  wouldn't  dare  to  stay  away.  Of 
course  some  of  us  ladies  '11  sen'  her  in  a  cake  or  a  pie 
now  an'  agin  to  help  out ;  I  can't  say  'at  I  think  much 
of  Philura's  cookin'.  She  never  had  much  to  do  with 
before  she  was  married,  an'  they  hev  to  cut  an'  trim 
pretty  close  to  git  along  on  his  salary,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  squeezed  Miss  Cynthia's  little  hands 
very  tight  in  both  her  own,  when  that  lady  called  at 
the  parsonage  for  the  express  purpose  of  interfering 
with  the  arrangements  of  the  committee.  "  I  can 
entertain  both  of  those  men  easier  than  you  can," 
insisted  Miss  Cynthia.  "Abby  is  perfectly  willing, 
and  I  have  plenty  of  room." 

"I  just  love  you  for  wanting  to  do  it,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Pettibone  impulsively;  "but  you  mustn't  think 


262     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

of  it.  We're  obliged  to  have  Mr.  Guffey  with  us. 
He  says  he  must  have  Mr.  Pettibone  right  at  hand 
every  moment  to  tell  him  about  people,  and  to  do 
things  for  him.  Besides  he  can't  eat  the  way  other 
people  do.  He  wrote  me  that  he  always  required  two 
soft  eggs  with  toast  for  breakfast,  and  they  must  be 
perfectly  fresh.  That's  easy,  of  course,  but  he 
wants  his  heartiest  meal  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
right  after  service.  He  says  a  bit  of  tender  steak  or 
a  couple  of  lamb  chops  nicely  broiled  agrees  with 
him  best.  He  has  the  most  awful  dyspepsia.  I'm 
to  come  home  right  after  the  preaching  service  and 
get  his  supper,  and  that  will  keep  me  away  from  the 
experience  meeting.  I  do  hope  you  won't  think  I'm 
very  wicked,  but  I'm  glad  I  won't  have  to  speak  in 
meeting.  I  never  could  bear  to." 

"  I  shall  take  the  other  man,  anyway,"  said  Miss 
Cynthia  decidedly.  "  Is  there  anything  peculiar 
about  his  diet  that  I  ought  to  know?" 

"Oh,  no;  all  Mr.  Swick  wants  in  particular  is  a 
piano  in  good  tune.  He's  a  real  nice-looking  young 
man.  Have  you  seen  his  picture?  If  you  haven't 
you  will.  They're  to  be  all  over  town,  in  all  the  shop- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     268 

windows,  and  in  the  depot.  Mr.  Pettibone  is  out 
seeing  to  that  now.  He's  so  worried." 

*4  Worried ! "  echoed  Miss  Cynthia. 

"There!  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that.  I  am  just 
going  to  believe  it  will  come  out  all  right.  And  won't 
you  believe  it,  too?  That  '11  help.  We've  got  to 
believe,  you  know,  that  things  are  working  for  good, 
every  minute" 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  sighed  Miss  Cynthia. 

Miss  Cynthia  found  herself  actually  glad  of  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Filbert  Swick  in  her  house.  He  was 
a  red-cheeked,  broad-shouldered,  complacent  youth, 
who  had  not  yet  assimilated  the  elation  incident  to 
acquiring  a  good  income  in  an  astonishingly  easy 
manner. 

"  It  was  just  this  way,"  he  confided  to  Miss  Cynthia 
during  the  second  week  of  his  stay.  "  I  was  clerk- 
ing it  in  a  shoe-store  in  Elmira  when  Mr.  Guffey  was 
holding  union  meetings  there.  You  never  saw  any- 
thing like  the  time  we  had  there.  Great  excitement, 
everybody  interested.  I  tell  you,  G.  Algernon  Guf- 
fey knows  how  to  get  hold  of  folks  every  time. 
But  his  singer  was  taken  down  with  grippe  right  in 


284      The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

the  middle  of  it,  and  lost  his  voice.  They  was  up 
against  it,  for  sure. 

"Well,  the  Committee  sent  for  me.  I'd  been  sing- 
ing in  the  church  choir  off  an'  on,  and  in  Y.  M.  C.  A 
meetings  an'  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I'd  never  got  a 
red  cent  for  it.  I'd  no  idea  I  could  swing  the  j  ob ; 
but  Guffey — why,  somehow,  do  ye  know  that  man 
c'n  make  anybody  believe  anything  he  wants  'em  to — 
he  wouldn't  hear  to  anything  else.  So  I  went  in 
with  him,  then  an'  there,  an'  I've  been  at  it  ever  since." 

Mr.  Swick's  youthful  satisfaction  with  himself  and 
his  work  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  witness.  He  was 
possessed  of  a  robust  baritone  voice,  and  in  the  brief 
intervals  between  services  he  lifted  it  up  in  Miss 
Cynthia's  parlour,  in  long-drawn  solos,  calculated  to 
melt  the  obdurate  human  heart  as  differentiated  in 
remote  country  districts. 

Miss  Cynthia  listened  musingly  as  he  voiced  a  wail- 
ful inquiry  for  a  lost  wanderer  out  on  the  hills  of 
time.  The  song  made  her  feel  vaguely  uncomfort- 
able, though  she  would  have  found  difficulty  in 
explaining  the  reason  for  it.  It  might  have  been 
merely  because  Mr.  Swick's  voice  when  adventured 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     265 

upon  the  higher  peaks  of  song  was  a  thought  flat  and 
nasal. 

"That  fetches  'em  most  every  time,"  observed  Mr. 
Swick  complacently,  as  he  struck  a  few  loud  chords 
with  his  blunt  fingers.  "  I'm  to  give  'em  that 
to-night  after  the  sermon.  I  wish  you'd  come  and 
hear  me,"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  boyish  wistfulness. 
"  I  wrote  to  mother  and  told  her  how  good  you  are  to 
me,  and  she  sent  her  love." 

"Did  she?"  smiled  Miss  Cynthia.  She  hesitated  a 
little,  then  said  quietly,  "Well,  I  will  come  to  the 
meeting  to-night — just  to  hear  you  sing." 

"  You'll  get  a  blessing,"  Mr.  Swick  assured  her  with 
sincere,  if  stereotyped,  enthusiasm.  "Guffey  is 
going  to  give  'em  one  of  his  soul-winners.  It's  the 
one  about  Dives  an'  Lazarus.  I've  seen  it  raise  folks 
right  out  of  their  seats — that  is,  after  I  get  through 
singing  my  solo.  Guffey  always  has  me  sing  that 
particular  song  just  before  he  makes  his  final  appeal 
to  sinners  and  backsliders.  We  expect  to  make  a  big 
haul  to-night.  Everything's  in  train  for  it." 

He  glanced  doubtfully  at  his  hostess,  then  with  a 
fine  imitation  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Guffey's  authoritative 


266     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

manner  he  remarked,  "  I've  been  much  concerned 
about  your  spiritual  welfare  of  late,  sister.  How  is  it 
with  your  soul  ?  " 

Miss  Cynthia  blushed.  "  I — I  don't  know,"  she 
faltered,  taken  quite  unaware.  "  I  hope — I  trust " 

Mr.  Swick  shook  his  head. 

"  I  fear  that  you  have  grown  cold  and  indifferent 
in  the  midst  of  your  wealth  and  luxury,"  he  said 
gloomily.  "  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  to  deal  with  you 
quite  plainly — in  fact,  Guffey  urged  me  to  do  it. 
You  know  you've  been  out  every  time  he  called,"  he 
finished,  in  a  burst  of  youthful  candour. 

Miss  Cynthia  was  looking  down  at  her  little  hands, 
folded  k)osely  in  her  lap.  She  made  no  reply. 

"  If  you  should  die  to-night,  sister,"  Mr.  Swick 
went  on  with  A  sudden  resumption  of  his  quasi-pro- 
fessional manner,  "  how  would  it  be  with  your  soul  ?  " 

He  was  astonished  at  Miss  Cynthia's  reception  of 
this  pertinent  inquiry.  She  had  risen  and  was 
regarding  him  with  wet,  indignant  eyes.  "  You  have 
no  right  to  ask  me  such  a  question,"  she  said,  in  a 
low,  vibrant  voice.  "  Do  you  hear  me  ?  You  have  no 
right?" 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     267 

She  turned  and  left  the  young  man,  sitting  dazed 
and  irresolute  upon  the  piano-stool. 

Mr.  Swick  heard  her  hurrying  feet  upon  the  stairs. 
"Gee!"  he  muttered  involuntarily,  "I  wish  Guffey 
hadn't  put  me  up  against  that  job." 


XVIII 

THE  Rev.  G.  Algernon  Guffey  had  preached  his  great 
sermon  on  Dives  and  Lazarus  to  a  crowded  house. 
Behind  him  rose  the  serried  ranks  of  the  choir,  the 
girls  gay  with  ribbons  and  tossing  feathers,  the  young 
men  stiff  and  uneasy  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the 
congregation.  At  the  evangelist's  right  hand  sat 
Mr.  Pettibone,  pale  and  worn  with  the  fatigue  of 
his  conflicting  emotions.  The  hush  that  followed  the 
preacher's  vivid  portrayal  of  the  serene  bliss  of  Abra- 
ham's bosom,  as  contrasted  with  the  burning  torments 
of  hell,  was  broken  by  Mr.  Swick's  youthful  voice 
upraised  in  long-drawn,  sonorous  cadences.  The 
singer  had  taken  a  position  on  the  platform  directly 
in  front  of  the  evangelist,  who  was  observed  to  direct 
the  crescendos  and  diminuendos  of  his  song  in  low, 
cogent  whispers. 

"  Slower,  now — very  soft!  Loud !  Bring  it  out 
strong!"  as  his  trained  eye  studied  the  excited  faces 
bent  forward  to  listen. 

£68 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     269 

Most  of  the  women  were  in  tears,  and  many  of  the 
men  sat  with  white,  strained  faces  when  the  last, 
lingering  inquiry  for  the  lost  wanderer  died  away 
amid  the  crowded  galleries. 

A  tense  silence,  prolonged  to  the  verge  of  the 
intolerable,  followed,  during  which  the  pale  eyes  of 
Mr.  Guffey  travelled  slowly  from  pew  to  pew. 
Heads  were  bent  to  avoid  that  inexorable  gaze ;  women 
shivered  and  moaned ;  children  set  their  little  teeth  to 
keep  from  crying  aloud.  A  wave  of  irresistible 
power  was  sweeping  the  plastic  crowd.  Did  it 
emanate  from  the  small,  slender  man  with  the  terrible, 
accusing  eyes?  Or  was  it  something  more  mysterious, 
more  terrible  still? 

He  was  speaking  now,  deliberately,  quietly,  but  with 
what  seemed  to  the  excited  congregation  an  unearthly 
comprehension  of  their  weak,  struggling  desires. 
To  be  "  saved,"  it  appeared,  one  must  rise  and  come 
forward  to  the  front  pews.  There  was  no  other  way 
— no  other  time.  He  who  hesitated  now  was  lost 
indeed — "Forever  Lost!"  The  final  words  rolled 
out  over  the  swaying  throng  like  the  tolling  of  a 
funeral  bell. 


270     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

A  woman  raised  her  voice  in  a  faint  shriek  of 
anguished  despair.  "  Wait ! "  she  cried.  "  I  am 
coming!"  and  staggered  down  the  aisle.  Instantly 
the  choir  broke  forth  into  the  triumphant  swing  of 
a  revival  hymn,  and  the  aisles  were  filled  with  hurry- 
ing figures.  The  crest  of  the  slow-gathering  wave 
was  sweeping  in. 

In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  Breyfogle  pew  sat 
Miss  Cynthia  Day.  She  had  come  to  the  meeting 
as  she  had  promised,  after  a  faint-hearted  apology 
to  Mr.  Swick  which  that  young  man  had  received  with 
boyish  embarrassment. 

"You  see,  I'm  studying  between  seasons  to  be  an 
evangelist  myself,"  he  explained  to  Miss  Cynthia. 
"  But  somehow  I  can't  seem  to  get  hold  of  the  knack 
of  saying  those  things  about  dying  and  the  state  of 
the  soul  that  Guffey  has.  I  don't  believe  anybody 
could  stan'  up  against  Guffey !  He's  got  such  a  way 
with  him." 

Miss  Cynthia,  sitting  quietly  in  her  own  pew,  had 
been  singularly  unmoved  by  the  sermon.  It  had 
seemed  to  her  forced,  theatrical,  insincere.  And 
because  of  this  inevitable  conclusion  the  Breyfogle 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     271 

conscience  was  taking  her  severely  to  task.  She 
winced  under  the  pale  radiance  of  Mr.  Guffey's  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  focus  directly  upon  her  shrink- 
ing little  self.  "How  can  I  be  so  cold?"  she 
asked  herself  passionately.  "  Why  do  I  not 
respond?  " 

She  wished,  with  a  curious,  detached  longing  which 
seemed  to  lay  hold  upon  her  limp  body  like  an  invisible 
hand,  to  rise  and  join  the  kneeling,  weeping  throng 
which  was  gathering  in  the  front  pews. 

"One  more!"  the  Reverend  Guffey  was  saying,  in 
low,  urgent  tones.  "Two  more!  Won't  you  come 
and  be  saved,  brother?  Won't  you  come,  sister? 
Come  now,  or  it  will  be  too  late!  The  grave  yawns 
deep!  Eternity  opens  before  you!" 

His  strange,  compelling  eyes  were  riveted  upon  Miss 
Cynthia.  He  was  speaking  directly  to  her,  with 
uncanny  prescience.  She  was  rising — moving  for- 
ward! 

"  Thank  the  Lord  fer  that! "  murmured  a  piously 
nasal  voice.  "  She's  be'n  an  awful  back-slider ! " 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  had  flung  wide  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  was  leaning  back  in  her  pew  with  the  complacent 


272     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

unction  which  is  assumed  to  be  the  peculiar  portion 
of  the  securely  elect. 

Deacon  Scrimger,  who  sat  across  the  aisle,  was 
swaying  back  and  forth  with  automatic  regularity, 
emitting  snorting  ejaculations  from  time  to  time. 
He  greeted  the  tremulous  little  figure  of  Miss  Cyn- 
thia with  a  loud  "Yes — yes!  Lord! — Amen!  Glory  I" 

Miss  Cynthia  heard  and  saw  all  with  the  confused 
vision  of  a  hypnotic.  She  was  thinking  of  but  one 
thing,  and  that  was  how  to  gain  the  front  pew  in 
the  most  expeditious  manner  possible.  She  knew  that 
she  could  find  peace  in  no  other  way — in  no  other 
place. 

Then  her  dazed  eyes  fell  upon  Harriet  Puffer.  The 
child's  pink  mouth  had  fallen  open;  her  little  hands 
clutched  rigidly  at  the  back  of  the  pew.  Edwina 
standing  at  her  side  was  bathed  in  tears.  Both  chil- 
dren were  pale  and  wild-eyed.  Miss  Cynthia  stopped 
short,  the  colour  rushing  back  to  lips  and  cheeks. 
She  smiled  reassuringly  at  the  twins.  There  was  a 
vacant  place  in  the  pew  beside  them.  She  slipped  in 
and  sat  down.  The  children  cuddled  close  against  her 
encircling  arm  like  frightened  birds. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     273 

"  Oh,  Miss  Cynthia ! "  whispered  Edwina,  "  do  you 
think  we'll  be  lost  ?  We're  awful  'f  raid,  but  we  don't 
das'  to  go  up  in  front." 

"  No,  dear,"  she  murmured.  "  There  is  nothing  to 
be  afraid  of."  Of  a  sudden  she  seemed  flooded  with 
an  immense  light  and  peace.  She  smiled  radiantly 
into  the  astonished  face  of  Mr.  Guffey.  His  pale 
eyes  no  longer  drew  her  toward  the  struggling,  moan- 
ing crowd  in  the  front  seats. 

His  lips  formed  a  single  word — "Come!"  He 
beckoned  her  with  an  authoritative  gesture. 

She  shook  her  head,  still  smiling. 

The  "  experience  meeting  "  had  begun.  Miss  Cyn- 
thia saw  Mrs.  Pettibone  rise  and  slip  away  like  a 
patient,  smiling  little  ghost  to  prepare  the  late  supper 
for  the  dyspeptic  evangelist,  and  she  heard  Mrs. 
Buckthorn's  loud-whispered  comment  on  her  with- 
drawal, "  A-shirkin'  her  dooty,  as  usual!  " 

It  was  Mr.  Pettibone's  kind,  tired  voice  which  urged 
everyone  present  to  take  some  part  in  the  meeting. 
He  reminded  them  of  their  obligations  to  their  Maker 
who  was  not  ashamed  to  call  them  his  sons  and 
daughters. 


274     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"He  ain't  got  no  more  snap  'an  a  tow  string!" 
complained  Deacon  Scrimger  in  the  ear  of  his  wife. 

"  I  wisht  he'd  resign ! "  she  replied. 

Miss  Cynthia  could  never  have  told  just  how  it 
happened,  but  suddenly  she  stood  up  beside  the  Puffer 
twins.  "  All  this  " — she  said,  slowly,  clearly — "  is 
not  finding — God.  It  is  not — religion.  To  find 
God  is  to  find  love  and  happiness  and  peace — and  life 
— within  ourselves.  We  must  love  one  another,  and 
be  kind — be  kind." 

Then  she  passed  quickly  down  the  crowded  aisles, 
and  out  under  the  quiet  light  of  the  stars. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  the  fresh-fallen  snow 
creaked  under  her  light  feet.  She  was  happy — even 
joyous,  in  the  deepest  depths  of  her. 

All  the  fear  and  doubt  and  rigid  holding  on  to  life  in 
the  face  of  an  awful,  impending  doom  had  left  her. 

"I  am  not  afraid!  I  am  not  afraid!"  she  mur- 
mured, and  lifted  up  her  face  to  the  dark  sky  which 
seemed  to  stoop  warm  and  close,  like  the  kind  face  of 
an  infinite  and  compassionate  love. 


XIX 

AT  the  close  of  the  final  service  the  Rev.  G.  Alger- 
non Guffey  found  himself  the  centre  of  a  stormy 
group  composed  of  the  more  prominent  members  of 
the  church.  Among  the  indignant  murmurs  which 
reached  his  ear  the  raucous  voice  of  Deacon  Scrimger 
cut  like  a  rusty  sickle. 

"  Them  words  of  Cynthia  Day's  was  jest  the  out- 
croppin'  of  the  damnable  heresies  which  hes  be'n 
a-growin'  up  in  this  'ere  community  fer  years," 
declared  the  deacon,  smiting  his  horny  palms  together 
in  a  fine  frenzy  of  righteous  indignation.  "I  shell 
insist  on  callin'  a  church  meetin'  an'  gittin'  right 
down  to  the  root  of  the  hull  business."  He  glared 
malevolently  at  his  pastor.  "The'  ain't  no  use  in 
tryin'  to  save  the  unconverted  out  o'  hell  when  per- 
fessin*  Christians  is  'lowed  to  talk  like  that  in  a 
r'vival  meetin'." 

Mr.  Guffey  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Let  us  not  be 
too  hasty  in  condemning  our  sister,"  he  said  judi- 
cially. "  It  is  not  given  to  every  man  to  be  so  filled 
with  the  consuming  anxiety  after  righteousness  which 

275 


276     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

you  manifest,  Brother  Scrimger.  As  it  is  written, 
4  The  zeal  of  thy  house  hath  eaten  me  up'." 

The  deacon  rolled  his  eyes  proudly  about  the  circle 
of  attentive  faces.  "That's  right,  dominie;  I  ain't 
in  favour  of  no  halfway  measures  when  it  comes  to 
r'ligious  dis'pline,"  he  remarked  with  a  gratified 
chuckle.  Then  his  lips  tightened  craftily.  "  I'd 
like  a  word  with  you  in  private,  Brother  Guffey,"  he 
whispered  loudly,  "concernin'  the  welfare  of  this 
branch  of  the  Lord's  Zion." 

The  evangelist  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  man's 
shoulder.  "Let  us  first  sleep  over  the  matter, 
brother,  and  the  Spirit  may  see  fit  to  instruct  us  in 
the  night  season,"  he  murmured  pacifically.  "A 
word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient." 

"Well,  I  sh'd  say  Cynthia  Day  had  ought  to  be 
dealt  with  im-me-diately"  broke  in  Mrs.  Buckthorn, 
with  a  loud,  discouraged  sigh.  "  There's  no  knowin' 
how  many  pr-reclous  souls  she's  kep'  out  of  the  king- 
dom to-night.  /  sh'll  spen'  the  hours  between  now  an' 
midnight  on  my  knees,  an'  go  forth  to  wrestle  with 
her  the  first  thing  to-morrow  mornin'.  What  do 
vou  perpose  to  do,  Mr.  Pettibone?" 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     277 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  pastor  of  the  church  became 
the  target  of  a  score  of  critical,  expectant  eyes.  He 
hesitated  visibly.  "We  should  remember  first  of  all 
the  command  of  the  Master  and  judge  not,"  he  said 
at  length. 

Fragments  of  whispered  conversation  were  buz- 
zing about  his  ears  like  teasing  gnats;  they  arose 
from  the  circle  of  women  that  fringed  the  group. 
"  They  do  say  she's  awful  intimate  with  his  "wife — 
she's  got  the  queerest  ideas — A  terrible  backslider, 
if  not  "worse!  " 

Mr.  Guffey  terminated  the  conference  with  practiced 
ease,  somehow  leaving  the  impression  upon  the  minds 
of  the  assemblage  that  he  privately  agreed  with  the 
opinion  of  each  one,  and  would  shortly  voice  the 
sentiments  of  the  many  in  a  cogent  utterance  which 
would  flatly  crush  the  bold  and  presuming  individual 
who  had  ventured  to  dissent  from  Innisfield  standards 
of  religious  propriety.  The  evangelist  adroitly  con- 
trived to  detach  Mr.  Pettibone  from  his  agitated 
parishioners,  and  presently  the  two  men  were  walking 
alone  on  the  frosty  street. 

"  Tell  me  about  that  woman,"  said  Mr.  Guffey. 


278     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"You  mean  Miss  Day?" 

"  Of  course,  who  else  ?  " 

Mr.  Pettibone  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  fear 
that  I  do  not  fully  understand  Miss  Day's  spiritual 
state,"  he  said  slowly.  "  She  has  been  a  member  of 
this  church  in  good  and  regular  standing  since  early 
childhood,  and  I  have  observed  nothing  uncommon  in 
her  conduct  until — well,  really,  I  could  not  say  just 
when  the  change  took  place;  but  she  is  certainly 
remarkably  different  from  what  she  was." 

He  added  a  few  sparse  details  concerning  Miss  Cyn- 
thia's more  spectacular  actions,  to  all  of  which  the 
evangelist  listened  with  grave  attention. 

"  Most  extraordinary,  I  should  say,"  commented  Mr. 
Guffey.  "  Did  you  preach  her  into  all  that,  Petti- 
bone?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  minister  honestly. 

Mr.  Guffey's  lips  widened  in  his  slow,  inscrutable 
smile.  "  They  tell  me  you  are  especially  strong  in 
urging  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  upon  your  hearers. 
It  isn't  popular  doctrine,  you  know." 

Mr.  Pettibone  turned  upon  the  evangelist  suddenly. 
"  It  is  the  constitution  of  the  Kingdom,  as  pro- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     279 

claimed  by  its  founder,"  he  cried,  almost  sharply. 
"  I  must  urge  it — /  must! " 

"  And  be  crucified  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Guffey  under  his 
breath.  "  The  Pharisees  are  on  your  track  now, 
brother." 

Mr.  Pettibone  lifted  his  worn  face  to  the  stars. 
"  Even  so  come  quickly,  Lord  Jesus ! "  he  whis- 
pered. 

It  was  the  day  after  this  significant  conversation 
that  Abby  Whiton,  energetically  ridding  the  door- 
steps of  a  crust  of  frozen  sleet  in  the  gray  light  of 
the  January  morning,  discovered  the  massive  form  of 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  advancing  toward  the  house.  That 
excellent  woman  was  heavily  swathed  in  shawls,  and 
the  tip  of  her  prominent  nose,  purpled  with  the  cold, 
protruded  from  the  frosty  folds  of  her  blue  veil  like 
the  beak  of  a  bird  of  prey. 

Miss  Whiton  regarded  this  early  visitor  with  an 
acrimonious  smile.  "  Seems  to  me  you're  out  pretty 
early  this  mornin',  Mis'  Buckthorn,"  she  observed. 
"  Ain't  you  'f raid  of  gittin'  rheumatiz  ?  " 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  groaned  hollowly.  "  I'd  reelly  ought 
to  be  in  my  bed  this  minute,  Abby  Whiton,"  she  re- 


280     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

plied.  "  But  when  dooty  calls  I'm  ever  to  be  found 
in  the  front  ranks." 

"What  pertic'ler  dooty  's  ketched  a-holt  of  you 
now?"  demanded  Miss  Whiton  tartly,  as  she  applied 
her  broom  to  the  large,  rubber-clad  feet  which 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  deliberately  presented  for  cleans- 
ing. "  The's  times  when  folks  gits  their  idees 
of  dooty  kind  o'  mixed  up  with  other  folks' 
bus'ness." 

"Was  you  at  the  meetin'  last  night,  Abby?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Buckthorn  sternly. 

"I  hed  m'  bread  to  set,"  Miss  Whiton  replied 
evasively.  "  But  if  it's  me  you've  come  to  talk  to  this 
mornin',  I  might  's  well  tell  ye  right  off  'at  I've  got 
r'ligion  a-plenty.  I  c'n  tell  the  truth,  'most  every 
time,  an'  I  min'  m'  own  business  the  endurin'  while. 
Ef  everybody  done  that  right  along  I  guess  most 
folks  'ud  think  the  m'lennium  had  struck  'em." 

"My  business  here  is  no  concern  of  yours,  Abby," 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  said,  compressing  her  lips  with  an 
air  of  pious  endurance.  "  I've  come  to  talk  care- 
fully an*  prayerfully  with  Cynthia  Day  about  the 
state  of  her  immortal  soul.  You  will  let  her  know 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     281 

that  I  am  waitin'  to  see  her.  My  time  is  val-u-dble!  " 
The  final  words  were  spoken  in  a  loud,  melancholy 
tone  of  voice  calculated  to  penetrate  careless  ears  in 
almost  any  part  of  the  house. 

"Hern  is  too,"  retorted  Abby  Whiton,  with  a 
defiant  toss  of  her  head.  "  I  wouldn't  wait  ef  I  was 
you.  Miss  Cynthy  don't  need  no  talkin'  to.  She's 
jest  a-gittin'  so  she's  cheerful  an'  happy,  an'  1 
ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  her  bothered  'bout  her  soul,  so 
there!" 

"Well,  of  all  thwgs!"  Mrs.  Buckthorn  intoned, 
with  deep-throated  indignation.  "You  will  call  her 
at  once,  or  I  shall ! " 

The  two  women  stared  truculently  at  each  other  for 
a  full  minute ;  then,  as  the  visitor  made  a  determined 
movement  toward  the  door,  Abby  Whiton  threw  it 
dramatically  wide,  disclosing  her  mistress  in  a  rose- 
coloured  morning-gown  smiling  over  one  of  James 
Blake's  voluminous  letters. 

"  Here's  Mis'  Buckthorn  come  to  talk  Tier  kind  of 
religion  with  ye,"  she  announced,  with  a  trenchant 
sniff,  and  withdrew  to  the  kitchen,  whence  the  mun- 
dane clash  of  stove-lids  and  poker  in  active  conflict 


282     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

was  presently  heard  blending  with  the  warlike  strains 
of  the  Crusader's  hymn. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  had  divested  herself  of  the  outer 
sheath  of  veils  and  shawls,  and  stood  wrapped,  as  it 
were,  in  the  voluminous  garments  of  her  righteous- 
ness in  the  presence  of  the  small  rose-clad  person  who 
started  to  her  feet  in  haste  from  a  deep  wicker  chair 
by  the  fireside. 

Miss  Cynthia's  face  was  fresh  and  smiling ;  her  blue 
eyes  shone  with  the  violet  light  of  immortal  life. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said  simply,  but  an  unmistak- 
able paean  of  love  and  joy  sounded  in  her  low  voice. 
She  motioned  her  visitor  to  a  seat  with  a  gracious 
gesture,  which  somehow  brimmed  over  the  deep  cup  of 
that  worthy  matron's  wrath  and  indignation. 

"  I  do  grieve  to  see  you  in  this  ungodly  frame  this 
morning,  Cynthia,"  Mrs.  Buckthorn  began  in  a 
hollow,  majestic  bass.  "  I  had  hoped  to  find  you  with 
your  hands  on  your  mouth  and  your  mouth  in  the 
dust  crying  4  unclean !  unclean ! '  But  I  see  only  too 
plain  that  you've  hardened  your  heart  like 
Pha-rarohP" 

Miss  Cynthia  hastily  gathered  the  scattered  pages 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     283 

of  her  letter  with  trembling  hands.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "  I  was  feeling  very 
happy  this  morning — very  happy.  I  hope — — : 

"Happy!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  sinking 
heavily  into  a  chair.  "Happy!*9  Her  eyes  roved 
inquisitively  over  Miss  Cynthia's  gown.  "  It  's  been 
on  my  heart  for  a  long  time  to  deal  plainly  with  you, 
Cynthia ;  an'  now  I'm  here  to  do  it.  I  fear  that  all 
is  not  right  with  your  immortal  soul — judgin'  from 
what  I  see  an'  hear." 

Her  curious  eyes  again  busied  themselves  with  the 
tips  of  Miss  Cynthia's  little  slippers,  ascending  by 
slow  degrees  up  the  lace-trimmed  front  of  the  pink 
morning-gown  and  coming  to  a  full  stop  upon  the 
modest  brooch  which  fastened  the  lace  at  her  throat. 

"Di'monds,  I  do  believe!"  she  whispered,  with  a 
heartrending  sigh.  "  Cynthia,  I'm  a-goin'  to  put  a 
solemn  question,  an'  I  want  you  should  answer  it  as 
if  you  was  on  your  dyiri*  bed.  What  do  you  think 
your  sainted  ma  would  say  to  all  this,  if  she  was 
here?"  An  inclusive  hand-sweep  indicated  Miss 
Cynthia's  immediate  environment,  including  the  rose- 
coloured  gown  and  the  appurtenances  thereof. 


284     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Miss  Cynthia  in  a  low 
voice.  She  had  grown  very  pale  and  her  hand  stole 
unconsciously  to  the  laces  on  her  breast. 

"And  what,"  pursued  her  inquisitor  mercilessly, 
"do  you  think  your  dear,  departed  grandfather — 
who  was  a  pillar  in  Zion — if  anybody  ever  was — 
would  say  to  the  terrible  setback  you  give  our  blessed 
r'vival  las'  night  ? — Wait  before  you  ans-wer  me,  Cyn- 
thia !  for  I  see  you  don't  realise  what  you  done.  Do 
you  know  I  counted  at  least  six  sinners  an'  back- 
sliders a-settlin'  back  in  their  seats  as  contented  as 
could  be  after  you  spoke.  They  would  have  gone 
forward  to  the  front  pews  an'  been  saved;  but  now 
they're  lost  forever !  An'  the  terrible  responsibility's 
a-layin'  at  your  door!  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
set  there  in  my  presence,  dressed  up  like  the  scarlet 
woman,  with  your  di'monds  a-glitterin'  like  sparks  of 
hell-fire." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  closed  her  eyes  after  this  burst  of 
fervid  eloquence  and  rocked  back  and  forth  in  word- 
less anguish  of  spirit. 

She  opened  them  suddenly  at  sound  of  a  harsh  ex- 
clamation. Abby  Whiton  stood  over  her  mistress 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     285 

white  with  fury.  "  I  hope  you're  satisfied  now ! " 
she  said  in  a  hissing  whisper.  "  The'  don't  anybody 
need  to  talk  to  me  'bout  r'vivals !  The's  folks  in  this 
'ere  town  'at  need  to  git  manners  more'n  they  do 
r'ligion,  an1  they  ain't  fur  off,  neither! " 

She  was  plying  the  camphor  bottle  as  she  talked. 
Miss  Cynthia  struggled  weakly  to  her  feet  to  avoid  a 
second  blinding  dash  of  the  pungent  fluid. 

"  That  will  do,  Abby,"  she  said  with  dignity.  "  I 
— I  was  so  surprised  at  what  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
said  that  I  hardly  knew  for  a  minute  what  I  was 
doing." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ain't  calloused,  Cynthia," 
observed  that  lady  in  her  deepest  bass.  "  The  Spirit's 
quick  an'  powerful  as  a  two-edged  sword,  you  know. 
It's  be'n  known  to  kill  sinners  right  in  their  tracks 
before  now." 

"  Don't  you  das'  to  call  her  no  sech  names,"  snapped 
Abby  Whiton.  "  She  ain't  no  more  of  a  sinner  'an 
you  be.  The  simple  idee  of  your  a-settin'  up  to  be  a 
pattern  to  her!  " 

"Abby!"  Miss  Cynthia  spoke  very  quietly;  but 
Miss  Whiton  retreated  kitchenward,  after  depositing 


286     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

the  camphor  bottle  in  a  defiantly  prominent  position 
on  the  mantel-shelf. 

"  I  declare,  that  woman's  got  the  worst  tongue  in 
this  town,"  observed  Mrs.  Buckthorn  feelingly.  "I 
wonder  you'll  keep  her  in  your  house." 

"  She  loves  me,"  Miss  Cynthia  answered  gently. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  arose  stiffly.  "I've  got  to  go 
now,"  she  sighed.  "  I've  got  pie  an'  cake  to  bake  an' 
m'  dishes  to  wash  up.  I  felt  as  though  I  couldn't 
get  here  too  soon.  I  want  you  should  spend  the  hours 
between  now  an'  the  evenin'  meetin'  on  your  knees, 
Cynthia.  Then  come  to  that  blessed  meetin'  prepared 
to  do  your  Christian  dooty.  You'd  ought  to  take 
back  every  word  of  what  you  said  las'  night.  If  you 
humble  your  proud  heart  in  the  dust  maybe  the 
Lord  '11  fergive  you.  An'  I  want  you  should  know 
'at  /  shall  address  the  throne  of  grace  in  your  behalf 
myself" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  looking  down  at 
the  toes  of  her  slippers. 

"An'  will  you  promise  me  to  do  what  I  ask,  my 
dear  child?  "  gurgled  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  with  water- 
ing eyes.  "I  sh'll  feel  that  I've  accomplished  my 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     287 

wlwle  dooty  if  you  only  will."  She  possessed  herself 
of  one  of  Miss  Cynthia's  reluctant  hands  and  fondled 
it  damply  in  both  her  own;  then  stooping  suddenly 
kissed  her  full  upon  the  mouth.  "  I  sh'll  be  s'  thank- 
ful an'  happy  to  see  you  a-kneelin'  in  the  front  pews, 
like  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burnin',  an'  to  feel  that 
my  hand  was  counted  worthy  to " 

"  But  I  haven't  promised,"  said  Miss  Cynthia 
doggedly.  She  shrank  away  from  the  woman's  large 
body  with  an  almost  overpowering  sense  of  physical 
aversion.  "  I  shall  not  come  to  the  service  this  even- 
ing, nor  any  evening,"  she  finished  positively. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  believe  that  what  I  said  last  night  is 
true." 

A  red  fury  blazed  evilly  in  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  dull, 
flaccid  face.  She  turned  away  without  another  word, 
and  Miss  Cynthia,  standing  mute  and  motionless, 
heard  two  successive  slams  of  two  distant  doors  which 
announced  her  hasty  exit. 

Could  she  have  followed  the  wrathful  progress  of 
her  departing  guest  she  might  have  witnessed  a  brief 
interview  with  the  Rev.  G.  Algernon  Guffey  which 


288     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

took  place  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Mr.  Guffey 
was  striding  briskly  through  the  snow  with  a  cheer- 
ful, not  to  say  jovial,  expression  of  countenance  which 
still  further  incensed  the  irate  lady. 

"  I've  just  come  from  labourin'  with  that  poor, 
sinful,  misguided  soul,  Cynthia  Day — her  that  spoke 
those  wicked  words  in  our  blessed  meetin'  last  night," 
began  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  with  a  hollow  intonation  of 
despair.  "  I  couldn't  rest  ner  sleep  till  I'd  gone  forth 
to  deal  with  her,  heart  to  heart.  I  fear  we  sh'll  have 
to  leave  her  to  perish  in  her  sins.  She  wouldn't 
listen  to  me.  But  I  feel  I've  done  my  full  dooty. 
I've  throwed  out  the  life-line,  as  the  beautiful  hymn 
says,  and  if  she  won't  take  a  hold  of  it,  it  can't  be 
laid  at  my  door." 

A  glance  of  something  like  amusement  shone  for  an 
instant  in  Mr.  Guffey's  gray  eyes,  but  he  answered 
seriously,  "  I  was  just  going  to  see  Miss  Day." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you're  called  upon  to  waste 
your  precious  moments  with  Tier,"  said  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn acrimoniously.  "  7  said  all  that  anybody  could 
say.  I  found  her  sitting  there  all  dressed  up  in  pink 
flounces,  trimmed  with  lace  aw'  diamonds,  entirely 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     289 

dead  in  trespasses  an'  sins.  I  declare,  I'm  fairly 
boilin'  over  with  Godly  wrath.  If  you  will  insist 
on  goin'  I  hope  an"  trust  you'll  rebuke  her  sharply. 
She  needs  it!  " 

Mr.  Guff  ey  smiled  understandingly.  "  I  shall 
remember  what  you  have  told  me,"  he  said  pleasantly. 
"  By  the  way,  Sister  Buckthorn,  will  you  do  some- 
thing for  the  cause?  I  am  asking  you  because  there 
is  no  one  else  to  whom  I  can  turn  with  confidence 
at  the  moment." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn's  fat  face  creased  itself  into  a 
dubious  smile.  "  I'm  generally  to  be  found  waitin' 
in  the  front  ranks,  ready  an'  willin'  for  the  call  of 
dooty,"  she  remarked,  with  a  tentative  cough. 
"  What  was  it  you  wanted  I  should  do  ?  " 

"  It  occurred  to  me  that  if  a  lady  of  your  standing 
in  the  community  should  personally  visit  the  outlying 
houses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  tin-can  factory 
and  invite  the  operatives,  their  wives  and  children  to 
attend  the  meetings,  great  good  might  be  done." 

"What!  «Go  into  all  those  dirty  houses  and  talk 
with  those  shiftless  women?  No,  Mr.  Guffey,  I  don't 
feel  that  dooty  calls  me  that  way.  My  health  is 


290     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

delicate,  you  know — very  delicate.  I  have  to  be  very 
cautious.  But  I  can  tell  you  who  ought  to  be  doin* 
that  blessed  work,  an'  that's  our  paster's  wife. 
That's  what  they're  paid  for.  An'  while  we're  speak- 
ing of  Mis'  Pettibone,  I  feel  as  though  I'd  ought  to 
tell  you  that  she  needs  a  serious  talkin'  to  on  the 
subjec'  of  her  dooty  to  this  church.  I've  had  it  on 
my  heart  for  a  long  time  to  mention  it.  She's  very 
far  from  bein'  the  kind  of  a  paster's  wife  we  need  in 
this  community.  I  do  grieve  to  say  it,  but  her  in- 
fluence on  the  paster  is  very  bad.  He  ain't  the  same 
man  'at  he  was  before  he  married  Philura  Rice." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it,"  Mr.  Guff ey  said  gravely. 
"Mrs.  Pettibone  is  a  remarkable  woman,  in  many 
ways." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  compressed  her  lips.  "You  can't 
tell  me  anything  I  don't  know  about  Philura  Rice," 
she  syllabled  conclusively.  "No  stranger  is  capable 
of  understanding  her  as  I  do.  There's  a  great  deal 
of  dissatisfaction.  Perhaps  you've  heard  of  it?" 

Mr.  Guffey  looked  steadily  at  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  and 
the  lady's  lids  presently  fell  before  the  direct  gaze  of 
the  evangelist's  greenish-gray  orbs.  "  I  make  it  a 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     291 

point  never  to  hear  anything  of  the  sort  while  em- 
ployed in  my  special  work,"  he  remarked,  in  a  gentle 
but  particularly  distinct  tone  of  voice. 

Mr.  Guffey  actually  laughed  aloud  to  himself  and 
the  surrounding  silence  as  he  opened  the  gate  of  the 
old  Breyfogle  place,  and  the  light  of  his  inward 
cogitations  still  shone  pleasantly  on  his  grave,  com- 
posed face  when  Abby  Whiton  admitted  him  to  Miss 
Cynthia's  parlour. 

Miss  Cynthia,  in  quite  a  flutter  of  apprehension  and 
rose-coloured  flounces,  came  in  to  greet  him.  Mr. 
Guffey's  experienced  eyes  noted  the  half-shed  tears 
which  sparkled  on  her  lashes,  and  the  agitated  blushes 
fluttering  over  the  delicate  oval  of  her  cheek. 

"A  bruised  reed,"  he  thought  to  himself,  and 
wondered. 

"You — you — must  have  been — very  much  dis- 
pleased— and — and  shocked  at  what  I  did  last  night," 
began  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  desperate  effort  to  appear 
quite  composed  and  dignified.  "  I  was  thinking  of 
the  children,  you  know;  they  seemed  so  —  so 
frightened." 

Mr.  Guffey  was  looking  at  her  very  kindly  indeed. 


292     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I  am  always  sorry  to  see  young  children  at  our  even- 
ing meetings,"  he  said,  in  his  low,  sympathetic  voice. 
"Little  children  need  loving  into  the  kingdom;  but 
for  the  careless,  stupid,  hardened  grown-ups  one  must 
sometimes  use  spiritual  dynamite.  It  does  frighten 
the  children  and — such  as  you.  I  am  sorry." 

Miss  Cynthia's  eyes  brightened.  "Oh  how  kind 
you  are !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  was  so — so " 

"  You  didn't  want  to  see  me,"  suggested  Mr.  Guff ey, 
showing  his  white,  even  teeth  in  an  amused  smile. 
"Well,  I  am  not  always  preaching,  you  see.  And 
now  won't  you  tell  me  how  you  came  to  find  the  heart 
of  Christ's  religion? — for  you  have  found  it.  It  is 
to  find  love  and  happiness  and  peace  and  life,  and, 
having  found  it,  to  love  one  another  and  be  kind. 
How  did  you  discover  this  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  told  me  that  I  am  going  to  die — soon 
— next — April."  Miss  Cynthia  spoke  in  a  hushed 
voice,  which  yet  sounded  like  a  cry  in  her  listener's 
ears.  "  I  had  to  find — something — /  had  to!  I  found 
— that." 

Then,  having  uncovered  her  terrible  little  secret  be- 
fore this  stranger,  who  was  still  regarding  her  more 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     293 

kindly  and  tranquilly  than  ever,  Miss  Cynthia  burst 
into  tears.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  have  told  you  this," 
she  faltered.  "  I  had  told  no  one — I  meant  to  tell  no 
one." 

Mr.  Guffey  made  no  attempt  to  stay  her  weeping. 
He  was  wonted  to  woman's  tears.  But  something  in 
his  strong  silence  presently  quieted  Miss  Cynthia's 
low  sobbing. 

She  looked  up  with  a  wistful  smile.  "  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  "  she  asked  him  like  a  child. 

"Would  you  like  to  visit  the  families  on  the  east 
side  of  the  river,  and  tell  them  what  you  have  found 
and  ask  them  to  come  to  the  meetings?  They  will 
need,  perhaps,  to  kneel  in  those  front  pews,  and  do 
those  simple,  concrete  things  which  help  to  wake  a 
soul  out  of  its  deadening  lethargy.  Mind  you,  I  do 
not  think  these  things  are  religion  in  themselves ;  but 
they  sometimes  help  dull  souls  to  awaken  out  of 
sleep.  And  anything  to  wake  them  up,  even  if  it  be 
the  brazen  blast  of  a  sermon  like  the  one  I  preached 
last  night.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

Miss  Cynthia  was  looking  sweetly  mystified.  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't — altogether,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  so 


294     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

glad  you  came  to  see  me.  I  know  most  of  the  women 
in  those  houses  already.  I  will  go  to  them  right 
away." 

She  was  searching  the  evangelist's  worn  face  with 
anxious  eyes.  "Do  you  think — do  you  believe  God 
will  let  me  live — if  I  want  to  very  much?  Mrs. 
Pettibone  told  me "  She  stopped  short  in  word- 
less confusion. 

"  Christ  was  the  Healer.  He  is  with  us  always,  and 
always  the  same,  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever," 
said  the  man.  "I  know  this  much.  I  can  say  no 

more.  I  wish "  He  paused  abruptly,  his  strong 

features  working  with  some  unexplained  emotion. 
"  Good-bye,"  he  said  gently ;  "  I  shall,  perhaps,  not 
see  you  again." 


XX 


"  WELL,  an'  what  'd  that  man  hev  to  offer  ?  "  de- 
manded Abby  Whiton,  hastily  selecting  a  hot  flatiron 
from  among  the  huddled  group  over  the  range  fire. 
She  faced  about  with  dramatic  suddenness  and  fixed 
searching  eyes  upon  her  mistress. 

Miss  Cynthia  had  appeared  in  the  door  of  the 
kitchen,  dressed  for  walking.  She  was  paler  than  her 
wont,  but  Abby  could  detect  no  evidence  of  her  late 
disquieting  interview  with  Mr.  Guffey  upon  her 
placid  face. 

"  I  mus'  say,  I  kind  of  liked  his  looks,"  Miss  Whiton 
added  grudgingly.  "  But  you  can't  never  tell  about 
a  man,  minister  er  no  minister.  They're  all  alike  to 
me,  anyhow!"  She  clashed  her  iron  defiantly,  as 
she  eyed  the  small  figure  in  the  doorway. 

"  He  wanted  I  should  go  and  see  the  people  down  by 
the  river,"  said  Miss  Cynthia.  "  I  am  going  now. 
I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  may  be  late  to  dinner." 

295 


296     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I  heerd  him  a-tellin'  ye  that  much,"  Miss  Whiton 
said  unblushingly.  "  I  couldn't  reelly  make  out  all 
that  was  goin'  on  betwixt  you ;  you  didn't  speak  loud 
enough  fer  me  to  gether  it  all.  I  do  b'lieve  I'm 
gittin'  deef  in  m'  right  ear." 

"Oh,  Abby,  were  you  listening?" 

"Well,  I  guess!  D'ye  s'pose  I'm  a-goin'  to  let  a 
strange  man  int'  the  house — to  pester  ye,  like  es  not — 
an'  me  out  in  the  kitchen?  I'll  bet  I  know  which  way 
my  dooty  lays,  es  Mis'  Buckthorn  says.  Where'd 
yoM  fetched  up,  I'd  like  to  know,  'f  I  hadn't  a-be'n 
right  on  hand  with  the  camphire  when  she  was  lettin' 
out  her  spite  an'  meanness  on  ye.  She  calls  it  the 
work  of  the  sperit !  It's  more  like  bein'  possessed  with 
th'  devil,  7  sh'd  say." 

Miss  Whiton  was  evidently  labouring  under  some 
strong  mental  excitement,  for  she  set  down  the  over- 
heated iron  in  the  middle  of  a  damask  napkin  with 
an  emphasis  which  left  a  faint,  brown  print  on  its 
snowy  surface. 

"  Well,  I  guess  mebbe  it  '11  do  ye  good  to  git  out  in 
th'  air,"  she  went  on;  "it  's  come  off  a  nice  day  in 
spite  of  everythin'."  She  proceeded  to  fold  and 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     297 

crease  the  napkin  with  scrupulous  care,  leaving  a 
brown  mark  on  every  burnished  square.  The  smell 
of  scorching  linen  pervaded  the  room. 

"Did — you — hear  everything  that  I — said  to  Mr. 
Guff ey  ?  "  asked  Miss  Cynthia,  with  an  involuntary 
shiver  of  apprehension.  "  Did  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  hear  nothin'  'cept  what  I  told  ye  jus* 
now,"  said  Abby  gruffly.  "  I  mus'  say  I  think  't 
was  kind  of  nervy  of  him  to  expect  you  to  go  trampin' 
'round  in  the  slush  after  them  poor  folks.  Why  in 
creation  don't  he  go  himself,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Miss  Cynthia  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  Seems  to 
me  I  smell  something  burning,"  she  said,  gazing 
short-sightedly  at  the  strenuous  motions  of  the  iron. 
"  Perhaps  your  flat  is  too  hot.  I  must  hurry  right 
along  now.  Have  dinner  at  two,  please.  I  shan't  be 
hungry  before  then.  Good-bye,  Abby." 

Abby  Whiton  continued  her  work  in  stony  silence 
till  she  heard  the  front  door  close  after  her  mistress. 
Then  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  threw  her  apron  over 
her  head.  "  Oh — Lord ! "  she  groaned,  "  I  told  her  a 
wicked  lie  right  out.  I  hed  to.  I  did  hear  what  she 
told  him  'bout  dyin'  in  April.  Oh — Lord!  what  shell 


298     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

I  do.  Seems  's  'o  I  couldn't  stan'  it  nohow!  'Tain't 
right  to  let  her  die  right  now,  jes'  when  every  thin'  's 
comin'  her  way,  an'  Jim  Blake  ready  an'  anxious  to 
keep  stidy  comp'ny.  What  's  the  use  of  it,  Oh — 
Lord?  " 

She  sprang  up  and  replenished  her  fire  with  a  sort 
of  frantic  energy.  "I've  jes'  gotta  do  somethin' !  " 
she  cried  aloud.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  hev  it  so.  Seems 
's  'o  there  ought  to  be  some  way  out  of  it.  The'  's 
th'  promises,  an'  they're  plain  readin'  right  out  an* 
out,  with  no  ifs  ner  buts  about  'em."  She  snatched 
a  worn  Bible  from  its  nook  on  the  top  pantry  shelf 
and  hastily  turned  over  the  leaves  with  moistened 
thumb. 

"  There!  I  don't  see  how  the's  any  gittin'  out  o' 
this.  '  Whatsoever  ye  shall  ask  the  Father  in  my 
name,  he  will  give  it  you.  Hitherto  have  ye  asked 
nothing  in  my  name;  ask  and  receive  that  your  joy 
may  be  full.' " 

She  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  flour  barrel, 
spreading  the  open  Bible  on  top  of  the  pastry-board 
which  covered  it.  "  Now,  here  I  be,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to 
take  ye  at  your  own  word,  O  Lord — 'jes'  as  I  see  it  set 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     299 

down  in  this  'ere  Bible,  right  in  these  two  verses  of  the 
gospil  'cordin'  to  John.  I  ain't  been  in  the  habit  of 
pesterin'  ye  much  fer  myself.  I  c'n  gen'lly  git  what 
I  want,  'f  I  work  hard  'nuff;  but  here  's  somethin'  I 
can't  do,  not  ef  I  was  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone. 
I  want  you  should  let  Miss  Cynthy  live.  I've  spoke 
'bout  it  before ;  but  I  didn't  know  then  as  the'  was  any 
danger  of  her  goin'  immej'ate.  0 — Lord,  let  her  live! 
I  ask  it  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ.  I  want  you 
should  notice  I'm  a-leanin'  hard  on  this  p'tic'lar  prom- 
ise. 7  sh'll  expect  It  to  be  jest  as  I've  said.  I  don't 
see  any  way  of  gittin'  out  of  it.  I've  done  percisely 
what  I  was  told  to  do  in  this  'ere  Bible,  an'  now  I've 
got  a  right  to  expect  that  she'll  live.  I  c'n  see  it 
wouldn't  be  right  fer  me  to  fret  an'  worry  'bout  her 
after  this,  an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to — not  a  minute.  I'm 
a-goin'  to  begin  to  fill  up  on  joy.  Amen ! " 

And  Miss  Cynthia,  picking  her  way  daintily  along 
the  wet  and  icy  street, felt  the  mighty  lift  and  impulse 
of  this  rude  petition  in  an  unreasoning  gladness 
which  seemed  to  enfold  her  like  the  warm,  sweet  breath 
of  summer.  She  even  found  herself  humming  a  gay 
little  tune  as  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  one  of  the 


300     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

shabby  little  houses  which  huddled  squalidly  about  the 
ugly  structure  known  as  the  tin-can  factory. 

A  sullen-faced  woman  with  a  crying  baby  in  her 
arms  opened  to  her  summons.  Miss  Cynthia,  obeying 
her  ungracious  gesture  of  invitation,  entered  the 
room ;  a  damp,  evil-smelling  atmosphere,  charged  with 
boiling  soap-suds  and  sodden  food,  greeting  her  on 
the  threshold  like  the  spirit  of  poverty. 

"  We're  all  about  done  fer  here,"  droned  the  woman, 
jerking  forward  a  rickety  wooden  chair  with  her 
one  free  hand.  "  This  'ere  pesky  young'n'  's  cried 
every  minute  fer  a  week ;  I  can't  git  no  rest  with  him 
night  er  day.  An'  Tim,  he  's  be'n  on  one  of  'is  sprees 
an'  guzzled  down  every  cent  of  'is  wages,  an'  the  rent 
due  an'  everythin'  goin  to  the  bad.  I  wish  't  I  was 
dead  an'  done  with  it." 

The  words  flowed  from  the  woman's  mouth  in  a 
turgid  torrent,  like  the  utterance  of  an  insane  person. 
Her  thin,  bent  figure  wavered  weakly  and  her  knotted 
fingers  clutched  despairingly  at  the  wailing  child's 
dingy  clothing. 

"  Let  me  take  the  baby,"  entreated  Miss  Cynthia. 

The  woman  dropped  her  burden  with  a  long  breath 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     301 

of  relief.  "  I  don'  know  why  he  was  ever  born  to  be 
the  plague  of  my  life  an'  'is  own,"  she  muttered. 
"  /  didn't  want  'im.  The's  five  more  of  'em  to  feed." 

Her  glassy  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears  at  sight  of 
Miss  Cynthia  as  she  smoothed  down  the  huddled 
flannels  about  the  infant's  red  neck.  The  little 
creature's  wailing  cries  softened  to  a  fretful  murmur 
under  the  awkward  touch  of  the  gentle  hand. 

"  He's  just  tired,  I  guess,"  cooed  Miss  Cynthia, 
stroking  the  downy  head.  "  Poor  baby,  and  you're 
tired,  too,  Mrs.  Flannery.  I'm  so  sorry." 

The  woman  drew  a  long,  sobbing  breath.  "  I  never 
expect  to  be  anythin'  else  but  tired,"  she  said. 
"  Never  anythin'  else  till  I'm  a-layin'  in  m'  coffin. 
That's  the  on'y  place  I  know  of  to  fin'  rest.  I  wish 
t'  G  od  I  was  there  now !  " 

"  There's  one  other,"  Miss  Cynthia  breathed.  "  I 
— I've  found  it.  I  had  to  find  it.  Will  you  let  me 
tell  you?" 

"  The's  no  use  in  talkin'  r'ligion  to  me — if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  the  woman  said  sullenly.  "  I  hate 
an'  d'spise  all  that  pious  rot  rich  folks  talk  when  they 
come  to  see  folks  in  my  fix.  It  makes  'em  feel  so 


302     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

mighty  snug  an'  comf 'table  to  set  in  their  silk  clo'es 
an'  jaw  'bout  church-goin'  an'  prayin'.  It  makes  me 
sick,  I  tell  ye!  Kin  God  make  my  husban'  quit 
drinkin',  I'd  like  to  know?  Kin  he  give  me  a  decent 
place  to  live  in,  an'  decent  victuals  to  eat,  an'  any 
peace  to  m'  life?  You  know  r'ligion  ain't  any  good 
fer  real  trouble  like  mine!  It's  jest — damned  lies!'9 

The  woman's  voice  rose  to  a  frenzied  shriek  with  the 
last  words.  She  shook  her  thin  hands  above  her  head 
with  a  hoarse,  inarticulate  cry  like  that  of  a  suffer- 
ing animal. 

"  Could  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Mrs.  Flannery  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Cynthia  unexpectedly.  "  I  should  like  it 
very  much,  if  it  isn't  too  much  trouble.  I've  had  a 
long  walk,  and  I  didn't  eat  much  breakfast." 

The  woman  stared  at  her  in  puzzled  silence  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  rose  stiffly  and  set  the  kettle  over 
the  fire.  Two  or  three  untidy  children  scattered  in 
obvious  fright  at  her  approach. 

"  I  don'  know  as  you'll  like  the  kin'  of  tea  I  hev  to 
put  up  with,"  said  the  woman,  as  she  set  a  cracked 
cup  full  of  steaming  liquid  on  the  table.  "I  ain't 
got  no  sugar." 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     303 

"  Thank  you,  it's  very  nice,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  her, 
as  she  began  sipping  the  hot  tea  from  the  discoloured 
spoon.  "Won't  you  have  some,  too?  I  shall  enjoy 
mine  better,  if  you  will." 

The  tired  baby  had  fallen  asleep,  and  Miss  Cynthia 
had  laid  him  in  his  cradle.  Seeing  this  a  faint 
glimmer  of  something  like  a  smile  flitted  over  the 
woman's  worn  face,  as  she  poured  a  second  cup  of 
tea. 

"  I  declare  to  goodness,  you'd  ought  to  be  merried 
an'  hev  young'n's  of  yer  own ;  you've  got  sech  a  way 
with  'em." 

"  I — I  hope — I  believe  God  will  give  me  a — 
baby  to  take  care  of  some  day.  I  should  dearly 
love  it." 

Miss  Cynthia's  face  burned  with  desperate  blushes, 
but  she  looked  bravely  into  the  startled  eyes  which 
stared  into  hers. 

"  You  Vlieve — God — "II  give  it  to  ye?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  firmly.  "God  wants  to 
give  us  what  we  want — He  wants  to ! " 

"He  don't  want  to  give  me  nothin'.  I  don't  git 
nothin',  anyhow." 


304     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"Did  you  ever  ask  God  for  anything,  and — and 
expect  it  ?  " 

The  woman  was  silent  for  a  full  minute.  "I  don' 
know  as  I  ever  did,"  she  admitted  sullenly.  "  But  if  I 
was  God  I  wouldn't  wait  fer  folks  to  ask.  I'd  give 
'em  what  I  see  they  needed — an*  a-plenty  of  it." 

"  I  asked  you  for  the  tea ;  should  you  have  given  it 
to  me,  if  I  hadn't  asked  you  ?  " 

The  woman  threw  up  her  hands.    "  God  ain't  like 
me!  "  she  shrilled. 

"What  is  he  like?* 

"I  don'  know.  I  never  thought  anythin'  'bout  it, 
nohow." 

"  God  wants  you  to  think  about  him,  and  to  ask  him 
for  what  you  want,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  in  a  tone  of 
joyful  assurance.  "He  is  our  Father,  and  he  loves 
us.  Did  you  never  think  of  that?  Please  think  of 
it  all  the  rest  of  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  and  ask  him 
for  something  you  want." 

"  If  I  c'd  on'y  b'lieve  the*  was  any  use  of  it," 
groaned  the  woman,  dropping  her  rough  head  upon 
the  table.  "  I  want  s'  many  things — w'y,  I  can't 
begin  to  tell  ye ! " 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     305 

"  Don't  tell  me!  "  whispered  Miss  Cynthia. 

She  stooped  and  laid  her  arm  timidly  about  the 
woman's  shaking  shoulders.  "Just  try  and  see,"  she 
urged,  and  was  gone  before  the  woman  had  done 
sobbing  out  her  full  heart  before  the  Father-God, 
who  spoke  to  her  in  the  silence  whicn  followed  the 
quiet  closing  of  the  door. 

"  I  forgot  to  ask  her  to  come  to  the  meetings," 
reflected  Miss  Cynthia,  as  she  tapped  at  another 
door;  "but  I  don't  believe  she  needs  any  spiritual 
dynamite." 

Mrs.  Schultz  was  vigorously  scrubbing  her  small 
kitchen  on  hands  and  knees ;  but  she  stopped  to  wel- 
come her  visitor  with  a  broad  smile  of  welcome 
which  brightened  her  round,  red  face  into  positive 
comeliness. 

"  I  guess  it's  kind  of  damp  in  here,"  she  said 
briskly,  "but  if  you'll  set  on  this  square  of  carpet, 
Miss  Day,  the  rest  the  floor  '11  be  dry  in  no  time." 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  will  come  to  the  meetings 
in  the  Presbyterian  church,"  Miss  Cynthia  told  her, 
with  a  growing  sense  of  her  mission  weighing  some- 
what heavily  upon  her. 


306     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Mrs.  Schultz  giggled  childishly.  "  Land !  Miss 
Day,  I've  be'n  a'ready,  an'  I've  be'n  converted  agin," 
she  said  complacently.  "  You  don't  ketch  me  stayin' 
away  from  no  meetin's.  Las'  winter  me  an'  Dave 
went  'way  over  t'  Spratt's  Corners  t'  the  Methodist 
r'vival.  I've  got  r'ligion  most  ev'ry  winter  since  I 
was  fifteen." 

Miss  Cynthia's  blue  eyes  opened  wide.  "What — 
becomes  of  it  in  the  summer?  "  she  asked. 

"  Blest  if  I  know,"  responded  Mrs.  Schultz  cheer- 
fully. "  It  seems  to  kind  of  peter  out,  come  spring ; 
I  can't  keep  it  a-goin',  somehow ;  but  it's  awful  com- 
fortin'  while  it  lasts." 

Miss  Cynthia  turned  this  difficult  matter  over  in  her 
mind  for  some  minutes.  Then  she  relinquished  it  with 
a  sigh. 

"Have  you  been  in  to  see  Mrs.  Flannery  lately?" 
she  asked. 

Mrs.  Schultz  shook  her  head  with  tightly  compressed 
lips.  "  She  's  the  dirtiest  critter  'bout  her  house  I 
ever  see,"  she  said,  smoothing  down  her  clean  calico 
dress  with  conscious  pride.  "  I  wish  't  they  'd  move 
away ;  that's  what  I  wish.  I  was  tellin'  Dave  Schultz 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     307 

this  mornin', '  them  Flannerys,'  I  says, '  is  a  disgrace 
to  this  neighbourhood.'  An'  he  says  he  c'n  fix  it  so  't 
Tim  Flannery  '11  git  knocked  out  his  job  at  the 
factory.  He  ain't  no  good  of  a  hand  cause  he's 
drunk  most  th'  time;  but  she  's  'nough  to  drive  most 
any  man  to  drink.  She  jaws  so  't  you  c'n  hear  her  a 
mile  ev'ry  time  he  comes  in  the  house,  an'  this  mornin' 
she  pitched  a  stove-lid  at  'im.  *F  Tim  hadn't  a  be'n 
so  drunk  I  guess  't  he'd  a-killed  her  right  in  her 
tracks.  I  sh'll  be  mighty  glad  when  we've  got  shet  of 
'em.  All  of  us  neighbours  feels  the  same  way.  Mis' 
Pell  an'  Sarah  Brown  an'  Delia  Burke,  they'll  tell  you 
so  if  you  ask  'em.  An'  her  young'ns  is  the  plague  o' 
the  place,  always  a-snoopin'  'round  under  foot." 

"What  if  you  tried  to  help  her?"  asked  Miss 
Cynthia. 

"  Help  her!  "  Mrs.  Schultz  bristled  with  righteous 
indignation.  "I  guess  I  have  helped  her.  She  's 
always  wantin'  somepin  off  the  neighbours.  I've  got 
so  't  I  hate  the  sight  of  her  comin'  in  't  the  yard.  I 
shet  down  on  her  borrowin'  fer  good  last  week." 

"  It's  religion  to  help  people  that  need  helping," 
said  Miss  Cynthia  distinctly. 


308     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Her  slow  thoughts  had  finally  marshalled  the 
woman's  correlated  statements  into  their  correct  rela- 
tion, and  the  solution  was  suddenly  made  plain  to  her. 
"  If  you  won't  do  that,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  keep 
on  getting  converted  every  winter,"  she  added. 

Mrs.  Schultz  stared.  "What's  Mis'  Flannery  got 
to  do  with  my  r'ligion  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  She  ain't 

got  no  more  idee  o'  r'ligion  'an — 'an "    Her  eyes 

wandered  vacantly  in  search  of  a  simile.  "  She  ain't 
got  no  r'ligion  't  all,"  she  concluded  doggedly. 
"  My !  I  was  on  m'  knees  'most  an  hour  in  the 
anxious  seats  th'  other  night.  You'd  ought  t'  ha' 
seen  me ;  an'  I've  be'n  hollerin'  halleloolya  ever  since." 

Miss  Cynthia's  eyes  were  fixed  unseeingly  upon  the 
row  of  thrifty  geraniums  in  Mrs.  Schultz's  one  win- 
dow, which  shone  clear  and  bright  in  the  winter 
sunshine. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  as  I  ought,"  she 
said  finally,  "  but  I  feel  sure  that  if  you  would  be  kind 
to  Mrs.  Flannery  and  help  her  with  the  baby  when 
she  is  tired,  and — and  not  feel  as  if  you  hated  her 
all  the  while — if  you  would  love  her- -if  you  only 
could  —  that  would  be  religion.  And  —  and  God 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     309 

would  like  it  better  than  to  have  you  sing  any  sort  of 
a  hymn." 

"  It  is  so  clean  and  pleasant  here,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  pause.  "And  you  are  so  strong  and  com- 
fortable looking.  If  she  could  learn  to  keep  her 
house  the  way  you  do — if  you  could  teach  her ;  don't 
you  think  she " 

Something  in  these  halting  words  touched  a  spring 
of  truth  in  Mrs.  Schultz's  ample  bosom.  "  Well,  I 
c'n  try,  anyhow,"  she  said  heartily.  "I  guess  she 
doos  git  'bout  beat  out  with  all  those  young'ns  of 
hern.  I  r'member  mine  us't  t'  pester  the  life  out  me 
when  they  was  little.  You're  mighty  good  to  come 
an'  see  me,"  she  finished. 

Miss  Cynthia  had  risen.  "  I  have  done  very  little 
for  other  people,"  she  faltered.  "  I — didn't  under- 
stand that  we  must  love  one  another  and  be  kind.  I 
am  just  learning." 

Mrs.  Schultz  drew  in  her  breath.  "  An'  you've 
be'n  a  perfesser  fer  years,  ain't  you?"  she  asked 
wonderingly. 

"Yes,"  acknowledged  Miss  Cynthia,  reddening 
under  the  woman's  candid  eyes  with  a  very  real  sense 


310     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

of   shame.      "  That   was    all   I   was — a   professing 
Christian." 

"  Land ! "  marvelled  Mrs.  Schultz,  as  she  stared 
after  her  departing  guest,  "  I  guess  most  folks  think 
that's  'nough  to  keep  'em  out  o'  hell." 


XXI 

SPEING  came  early  that  year,  first  with  rushing  tor- 
rents of  rain  which  swept  the  desolate  earth  bare  of 
snow  and  ice,  then  with  the  brave  voices  of  robins 
calling  aloud  in  the  frosty  mornings. 

Cynthia  Day  heard  the  voices  as  one  wrapped  in  a 
dream  of  hard-won  peace,  and  kneeling  before  her 
window  in  the  pink  light  of  dawn,  smiled  into  the 
veiled  face  of  her  future.  She  knew  at  last  that  life 
is;  that  to  live  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  bodies,  or  of 
houses,  or  of  money;  and  knowing  this  she  waited 
tranquilly  while  the  slow  days  rounded  out  the  year  of 
her  allotted  time.  Not  yet  did  she  understand  the 
greater  truth  of  the  resurrection. 

Abby  Whiton,  hanging  out  freshly  washed  clotHes 
of  immaculate  whiteness  amid  the  rigours  of  a  March 
morning,  heard  the  adventurous  robins  coaxing  reluc- 
tant Spring  across  the  borderland  of  Winter.  She 
came  in  with  nipped  fingers  to  lay  one  of  James 
Blake's  thick  letters  beside  the  coffee-urn  at  Miss 
Cynthia's  place. 

311 


312     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I  guess  we're  a-goin'  to  hev  a  reel  early  spring  this 
year,"  she  observed,  gazing  at  her  mistress  with  the 
keen  eyes  of  a  lover. 

Miss  Cynthia's  small  face  in  the  bright  light  of 
morning,  which  streamed  unhindered  through  the 
clear  windows,  shone  with  the  radiant  whiteness  of  a 
white  flower  in  the  sun.  "  I  hope  it  will  be  an  early 
spring,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like " 

She  stopped  to  look  down  at  the  letter,  and  her 
mouth  quivered. 

Abby  Whiton  jerked  her  elbows  with  an  impatient 
sigh.  Later  she  slammed  the  dish-pan  down  on  the 
kitchen  table  with  stony  composure.  "  Ef  that  Jim 
Blake  had  a  mite  of  the  gumption  he  us't  to  hev,  he'd 
a  be'n  on  here  to  see  her  'fore  this  time,"  she  muttered. 
"  I'll  bet  I'd  be  up-an'-a-doin'  ef  /  was  sparkin'. 
Serve  him  right  ef  somebody  else  was  to  git  her.  I 
wonder  what  in  creation  he  fin's  to  say  in  all  them 
letters  of  hisn."  She  opened  the  door  cautiously  and 
peeped  in. 

Miss  Cynthia  was  sitting  idly  by  the  hearth,  her 
little  feet  on  the  fender,  her  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
smouldering  logs  with  a  far-away  smile.  The  large 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     313 

pages  of  James  Blake's  letter  had  fallen  to  the  floor, 
and  the  big  maltese  cat  was  patting  them  experi- 
mentally in  a  staid,  elderly  fashion,  faintly  rem- 
iniscent of  her  remote  kittenhood. 

"Well,  I  mus'  say!"  snorted  Abby,  dealing  the 
innocent  cat  a  sound  cuff,  while  she  rescued  the  rust- 
ling pages.  "  You  don't  seem  to  keer  much  ef  the  cat 
doos  git  'em !  An'  I'm  sure  I  don'  know  why  in  crea- 
tion I  sh'd.  I  s'pose  I'm  a  meddlesome  ol'  fool, 
anyhow." 

Miss  Cynthia  laid  hold  of  Abby  Whiton's  immacu- 
late gingham  apron.  "  Oh,  Abby ! "  she  said.  Then 
she  hid  her  face  in  the  checked  apron,  as  a  child 
would  hide  its  face  on  its  mother's  shoulder. 

"  Fer  the  lan's  sake,  Miss  Cynthy ! "  expostulated 
Abby,  in  wild-eyed  consternation;  "don't  ye  git  to 
takin'  on  now,  er  I  shell  hev  to  dash  upstairs  fer  the 
camphire." 

"  He  wants  to  come  and  see  me  the  last  week — in 
April,"  murmured  Miss  Cynthia  from  the  depths  of 
the  checked  apron,  "  and  I — I  don't  know  what  to  say 
to  him." 

"Well,  I  want-ta-know ! "  intoned  Abby  strongly. 


314     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

"  I  sh'd  say  that  was  easy  es  rollin'  off"  a  log.  You 
either  want  t'  see  him,  er  ye  don't.  Come  right  down 
to  it,  I'll  bet  the'  ain't  anythin'  you  want  more.  Ef 
I  was  you  I  sh'd  write  an'  tell  him  'at  I'd  be  pleased 
to  see  him  at  m'  res'dunce  any  day  he'll  name." 

Miss  Cynthia  breathed  a  long  sigh.  "  Perhaps  that 
would  be  best,"  she  said  faintly.  "  I — can't  tell  him 
anything  different." 

"I  sh'd  say  not!"  chimed  in  Miss  Whiton  tri- 
umphantly. "  Well "  She  stopped  short  and 

eyed  the  small  figure  in  the  chair  with  critical  eyes. 
"  Ef  I  was  you,  I  sh'd  git  some  new  dresses  made  up, 
right  off.  The'  ain't  much  time  to  lose.  You  want  to 
look  es  well  es  ye  kin  when  he  comes.  I'd  git  a-holt 
of  Malvina  Bennett  first  off,  fore  anybody  else  cuts 
in  ahead  of  ye." 

"  I  don't  think  I — shall  need  any  new  dresses  this 
spring,"  said  Miss  Cynthia. 

One  of  the  adventurous  robins  had  settled  in  the  old 
apple  tree  just  outside  the  window  and  was  carolling 
a  lusty  defiance  to  the  large,  wet  snow-flakes  which 
were  falling  from  the  gray  heavens  like  the  soft  folds 
of  a  bridal  veil. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     315 

Miss  Cynihia  arose  and  walked  over  to  the  window. 
The  robin  darted  away  through  the  snow  with  a 
jubilant  cry  of  courage. 

"  That's  an  awful  good  sign,"  said  Abby  Whiton, 
looking  over  her  mistress'  shoulder.  "  Not  'at  I  b'lieve 
in  signs;  I  never  think  nothin'  'bout  seem'  the  moon 
over  my*  lef '  shoulder,  the  way  some  foolish  folks  do. 
But  I  do  like  to  see  m'  first  robin  high  up,  fer  luck. 
An'  e^  he  flies  whilst  you're  a-lookin'  at  him,  he'd 
ought  to  fly  high.  But  ef  you  see  him  down  on  the 
ground,  er  ef  he  flies  down,  it's  a  sure  sign  of  a  come- 
down in  the  world.  I  never  knew  it  t'  fail.  I  guess 
you're  a-goin'  higher  this  year.  I  hope  to  goodness 
you  be,  anyhow." 

Miss  Cynthia  turned  suddenly  and  looked  the  old 
woman  full  in  the  face.  "  Am  I  too  old  to  wear  a 
white  dress,  Abby  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  mite ! "  cried  Abby.  "  I  like  'em  myself  fer 
'most  anybody.  W'y  land!  Mis'  Buckthorn  had 
one  made  up  las'  summer  an'  wore  it  constant.  I 
guess  ef  she  c'n " 

"I  want  a  real  pretty  one,"  Miss  Cynthia  went  on 
thoughtfully.  "  It  must  be  made  of  something  soft 


316     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

and  shining,  with  lovely  lace ;  not  stiff  or  ugly,  like — 
Oh,  I  do  want  to  look  pretty  when — when  he  sees 
me.  I  want  him  to  remember  me — that  way." 

"  I'll  bet  he'll  remember  the  way  you  look  well 
'nough,"  said  Abby,  intent  upon  her  own  joyous,  if 
unaccustomed,  thoughts.  "  Don't  you  worry  a  mite 
'bout  that!" 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Malvina  Bennett  almost 
prayerfully  cut  into  shining  breadths  of  silvery, 
silken  tissue.  And  Abby  Whiton  scrubbed  the  floors 
and  shelves  of  her  kitchen  to  a  bridal  whiteness,  and 
examined  her  stores  of  pickles  and  preserves  with  a 
provident  eye. 

"  I  d'clare,  tnis  'ere  goods  looks  'most  like  a  weddin  - 
dress,  come  to  make  it  up,"  ventured  Miss  Bennett 
in  a  timid  whisper ;  this,  while  she  reverently  applied 
a  warm  iron  to  the  long  seams  of  the  skirt. 

"It  doos  look  consid'able  lib?  it,"  admitted  Abby 
Whiton  dryly.  "  But  I  guess  it  ain't  fer  you  ner 
me  t'  say  what  'tis  for." 

But  there  were  no  other  dresses  made,  and  the  white 
gown  when  completed  was  quietly  folded  away  in  the 
spare-room  closet. 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     317 

One  day,  when  a  warm,  caressing  wind  was  coaxing 
the  last  dead  leaves  from  the  old  apple  tree  in  the 
garden,  the  Puffer  twins  brought  Miss  Cynthia  a  tiny 
bunch  of  arbutus  buds,  pink  as  a  baby's  palm  and 
fragrant  with  the  ineffable  incense  of  resurrection. 
"  We  found  'em  way  up  in  the  woods,  all  covered  up 
with  dead  leaves  an'  pine  needles,"  exclaimed  Edwina, 
"  an'  we  brought  'em  to  you  because  we  love  you." 

And  Miss  Cynthia,  stooping  to  kiss  their  round, 
freckled  faces  with  heartfelt  gratitude  was  glad  of 
all  that  happened  in  her  past.  It  had  been  a 
strangely  quiet,  uneventful  life,  frozen  and  pinched 
and  colourless  in  its  earlier  years,  but  crowned  with 
innocent  love  and  happiness  at  the  last,  and  passing 
sweet  like  the  wild  fragrance  of  the  arbutus. 

"I  have  had  everything  to  make  me  happy  this 
year,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "  everything,  and 
I  am  not  afraid!" 

The  still  undercurrent  of  her  thoughts  lent  a  touch- 
ing dignity  and  peace  to  her  gentle  presence.  The 
poor  and  sick  in  Innisfield — and  they  were  many — 
touched  her  small  hand  with  longing,  and  blessed  her 
with  dimmed  eyes. 


318     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

The  teasing,  persistent  little  pain  had  left  her  long 
since.  But  of  this  she  thought  but  seldom.  She 
thought  only  that  it  was — April,  and  she  was  not 
afraid. 

The  frogs  were  peeping  loud  in  the  distant  marshes 
and  the  willows  wove  golden  arabesques  against  the 
warm  blue  of  the  sky  the  day  that  Rosalie  Scott 
found  Miss  Cynthia  once  more  walking  on  the  upland 
road.  The  girl's  face  shone  with  a  great  and  satis- 
fying joy  which  added  the  last  charm  to  her  vivid 
beauty. 

"I  have  been  lonely  this  winter,"  she  confessed; 
"but  I  have  learned  my  lesson,  and — it  is  not  too 
late.  I  want  to  thank  you  for — telling  me  what  you 
did,  Miss  Cynthia." 

"Has  George  Blossom  come  home?"  asked  Miss 
Cynthia  directly,  and  read  the  answer  to  her  question 
in  the  girl's  happy  eyes. 

"  It  will  be  a  long  time,  of  course,"  Rosalie  told  her 
shyly.  "  But  we  shan't  mind  that  now  that  we  know 
we — love  each  other.  Mother  didn't  like  it  very  well 
at  first.  But  father  says  George  is  just  the  sort  of 
a  man  he  likes.  Of  course  mother  always  thinks 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     319 

just  as  father  does,  and  now  she — we  all — are  very 
happy."  The  girl  stooped  to  kiss  Miss  Cynthia, 
with  all  the  warmth  of  her  newly  learned  lessons  in 
loving. 

The  long,  soft  twilight  of  April  had  settled  like 
gray,  brooding  wings  over  the  village  by  the  time 
Miss  Cynthia  entered  her  own  door. 

Someone  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  cheerful  circle 
of  the  firelight.  He  turned  at  her  approach  and 
looked  at  her  with  his  kind,  boyish,  brown  eyes. 
"Will  you  be  angry  with  me  because  I  came  sooner 
than  I  said?  "  he  asked.  "  I  couldn't  wait,  dear." 

"  I — I  am  not  angry,"  faltered  Miss  Cynthia.  "  I 
think  I  am — glad."  But  she  shrank  away  from  his 
eager  arms  in  piteous,  white  alarm.  "  I — ought  to 
have  told  you  before ! "  she  cried  out.  "  I  have  been 
cruel — unkind!"  Her  voice  broke  into  a  tremulous 
wail  of  pain  and  longing. 

"  You  must  tell  me  now,"  he  said  in  a  low,  determined 
voice.  He  took  her  cold  hands  in  both  his  own  and 
held  them  in  a  firm,  warm  clasp.  "  You  will  tell  me — • 
at  once." 


320     The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia 

Then  she  told  him,  in  short,  disjointed  sentences. 
"  It  was  only — one  year,"  she  finished,  "  and  the  year 
is — almost  over.  I  am  not  afraid — I  am  not  afraid. 
But  oh,  /  want  to  live!  " 

He  asked  her  one  brief  question — the  name  of  the 
Boston  physician — in  a  strangely  altered  voice.  His 
face  had  grown  stern  and  quiet.  He  bent  his  tall 
head  and  listened  to  her  heart-beats,  checking  her 
startled  exclamation  with  an  authoritative  word  and 
gesture. 

Then  he  drew  her  strongly  to  him.  "  Thank  God ! " 
he  breathed.  She  felt  a  man's  awful  tears  upon  her 
upturned  face.  His  lips  brushed  them  away. 

"  You  will  not  die,"  he  said.  "  My  little  June  Day 
— mine  at  last ! " 

Abby  Whiton  explained  matters  to  Mrs.  Nellie  Ryan 
Cartright  with  joyous  garrulity  in  the  kitchen  that 
same  evening.  "  Yes,  they're  a-goin'  to  git  married 
right  off.  The'  ain't  an  airthly  thing  to  hender. 
'  My ! '  I  says  to  her,  '  ain't  it  lucky  you've  got  that 
han'some  white  dress  all  made  up.  I  was  thinkin'  to 
m'self  all  along  it  was  jest  the  thing  fer  a  weddin'- 


The  Resurrection  of  Miss  Cynthia     321 

dress.'  But  Miss  Cynthy,  she  says  she's  goin'  to  be 
married  in  her  trav'lin'-dress.  It  doos  beat  all!  But 
I  don't  s'pose  the  doctor'd  care  ef  she  stood  up  in  a 
gingham  apern. 

"  What !  didn't  I  tell  ye  that  Jim  Blake's  a  doctor? 
Well,  he  is,  an'  makin'  money  han'  over  fist  out  west. 
I  guess  she'll  git  took  keer  of  f'om  now  on.  I  never 
see  anythin'  like  the  way  he  looks  at  her.  You'd 
think  she  was  made  out  o'  di'mun's.  Of  course  I'm 
goin'  west  with  'em.  Miss  Cynthy  says  she  couldn't 
git  'long  without  me,  nohow." 

In  the  privacy  of  the  kitchen  pantry,  by  the  flour 
barrel  which  had  served  as  an  effectual  altar  for  her 
many  fervent  petitions,  Abby  Whiton  returned  thanks 
in  a  jubilant  whisper.  "  She's  in  there  a-laughin' 
with  him  this  minute,  O,  Lord !  I  kin  hear  'em,  an'  it 
doos  soun'  happy  an'  contented  clear  through.  I'm  s' 
glad  an'  s'  thankful  I  don'  know  what  t'  do,  ner  what 
t'  say.  But,  O  Lord,  I  guess  mebbe,  seem'  'at  you 
understood  all  along  how  it  was  with  Miss  Cynthy, 
you'll  understan'  me  now,  without  my  sayin'  no 
more.  Amen ! " 


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